Beautiful Noise
by You're Those Guys
Summary: Mark and Milt are up to their ears in a complicated investigation of stolen merchandise and weapons.
1. Chapter 1

Beautiful Noise  
by You're Those Guys

(References to the story Everything Happens For a Reason by dcat8888)

Authors Notes:

WJ: We found this little plot bunny just lying there, listless and bored. We picked it up, gave it a good home, fed it, cuddled it and it grew into the biggest bunny we've ever seen! Now that it's a full-fledged 6-foot tall rabbit and way too big for its den, we're turning it loose on the world.

DC: What WJ is not telling you is that SHE came up with this most spectacular of plot bunnies and emailed me offline and asked if I'd be interested in writing it. Now, let me tell you, her plot bunny was more like an outline, perfectly plotted from beginning to end. I asked her to co-write because quite honestly, she'd done most of the work. I am grateful that she gave me the chance to come along for the 'hop.' And here's too many more!

_**Chapter 1**_

There were far too many places to hide or be hidden away at Gulls Way. Hardcastle already knew that, and it was especially annoying when he was looking to saddle up with his own personal Tonto. He'd have to turn to his secret weapon he used at certain times, the loud and sometimes obnoxious -- this being one of those times -- tone of his voice. "McCORMICK? Where the devil are you?" The Judge slapped the file against his leg as he made his way from the gatehouse back toward the main house. He found himself getting hoarse from continuing to shout out the same name over and over again, especially when there was no reply. Frustration was setting in, and he didn't like that one bit. "MccccCCCCCormmmmick, we've got work to do!" He knew that the kid could hear him. Everyone in the Malibu city limits could hear him.

He stood in between the gatehouse and the main house in the middle of the driveway and simply shouted at the top of his lungs. "McCORMICK!"

The birds that had been chirping in the trees had quickly dispersed to a quieter location, most likely fifty or more miles away, unable to compete with the intensity of Milt's voice and fervor. The judge looked around and saw his next door neighbor, Elliott Drinkwater, in his back yard working in his garden, staring at him. Milt waved, sort of, and got a wave in reply.

Milt made a note to himself: don't yell so loud when the Drinkwaters are in their back yard. So what if they were nosy neighbors who 'spied' on all the houses in the neighborhood? They were great additions to the Community Watch program, always keeping an eye on everyone's houses, and living next door to the Judge, especially for the last three years, had given them ample opportunities to call the police. How many times had the estate come under attack by bad guys? Heck, the neighbors should have been used to all the noise and mayhem coming from the Hardcastle estate. Then again…

He started walking in another direction. "Where could you have possibly gotten off to?" The Judge mumbled under his breath. His eyes scanned from left to right and back to left again. He hadn't been out of Milt's sight for that long.

The Judge decided to do an about-face and turned up onto the grass and crossed over to the back of the house. Maybe he was lazing about by the pool. He'd done that before.

"AHA!" Hardcastle shouted as he surprised an empty and unoccupied pool. The judge scowled up his face when he didn't see the kid nearby. All right then, he thought, he must be in the house, probably had the TV on and couldn't hear a thing. Inside he went, through the kitchen where the breakfast and lunch dishes still were strewn about on the table and counters. "McCORMICK, where are you? It's your job to clean up this mess! Shirking your duties again, huh? If I ever find you, you're going to wish you'd have listened to me," he bellowed out to the four walls.

He passed through the kitchen and made his way toward the den. There wasn't any sort of sound coming from that room and upon entering, he stood at the top landing to see that McCormick wasn't inside watching TV either.

He let out the primal yell on more time, "Mmmmm-cCORrrrrrr-MICKkkkkkkk?"

No answer came.

Hardcastle continued his rather loud and discordant tour of the house and nearby grounds. He went out past the rose gardens, down near the lawn statuaries, even to the top of the stairs that led to Seagull Beach below, and there was no McCormick to be seen or heard. There would be hell to pay if he discovered that the kid was purposely avoiding him.

He trudged back up toward the house and scratched at the back of his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied some movement coming from the garage and the closer he got he could see the hood of the Coyote was open. There the kid was, inside the garage working on that blasted car of his. It was his favorite pastime that was for sure, his very own pride and joy. It should have been the first place Milt looked, rather than the last.

Milt stood at the front of the large door, hands on hips and screamed one final time, "McCORMICK, do you know how rude it is not to answer when I call you? I walked around this whole place, and you've been in here the whole time, haven't you?"

There still was no reply from Mark, who still had his curly head buried behind the hood of the car.

The judge, now frustrated beyond belief, marched up and tapped him on his back.

"I'm talking to you, McCormick." A startled McCormick banged his head on the hood as he straightened up and removed the portable headphones from his ears. The Judge hadn't bothered to notice the headphones or the wire that ran from the earpiece to the walkman. For a brief second he was sorry that the kid banged his head, but it passed quickly and he even let a smile cross his face at how funny it had looked. McCormick was busy rubbing his head. The music was blasting pretty loud. No wonder he hadn't heard him. The kid was going to lose his hearing if he kept playing his music that loud. "Hey, what's the big idea, I'm looking all over for ya? And what is that awful racket?"

"Easy there, that's the Stones you're messing with, Judge." McCormick quickly forgot about the bump to his head and offered up a carefree grin. "That's classic rock and roll, legends in the music world and they never did anything to you."

"I don't know the Stones from the Rocks. I've been looking all over for you, screaming my head off, and you've been in here all along?" The Judge dismissed his easy going nature.

"Yeah, I told you I was going to work on my car. You know the other half of yelling is listening, Judge. Maybe you ought to work on that skill a little bit more, Hardcase." He rubbed his head once again, to see if a lump was forming from where it had hit the hood and took the headphones and walkman and walked them over to the bench where they wouldn't be damaged. "Can't a guy do a little work around here without getting hollered for and beckoned at every turn?"

Hardcastle took a deep breath. Right. He remembered that the kid had told him that he had to do some work on his car that afternoon and that he'd take care of the dirty dishes in the kitchen afterwards. He regulated his demeanor by a few decibels. "Everything working?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I'm just setting some adjustments on the fuel injector."

"Good, finish it up and go change your shirt. We gotta go check out a warehouse tonight."

"Warehouse?"

Hardcastle handed a thin folder to him. Mark opened it up and saw a picture of a rather unobtrusive individual, mid-30's, a greasy looking character. "Timothy Kerns," he read aloud. "Petty thief in his teens, did a few stints in Juvie, graduated to being a big-time fence later on, got a walk on a charge in Arizona, now thought to be involved with some kind of small electronics smuggling operation?"

"Not just electronics," the judge told him as they walked back up to toward the house. "The Feds think he's connected to some arms dealers. They buy guns and ammo here in the States for a few thousand dollars and sell it down in Central and South America for tens of thousands. Kerns got involved some months back when he started smuggling televisions, VCRs and video games to some of his out-of-country contacts and got noticed by some of the gun smugglers. They pay him to store the munitions in his warehouses here in the States and then use his supply lines to get the goods moved out of the country by hiding them inside the electronics. If he gets caught, he takes the fall and the smugglers get off free as a bird."

"We're going after big time gunrunners?" Mark asked. "Judge, these guys shoot to kill, ya know."

"No, we're not going after them. They fall under the Feds' jurisdiction, but they don't have enough on _this_ guy for gun running charges or to tap his phone or bring him in for questioning, so they talked to Frank about any local crimes Kerns has committed. He's been keeping his nose clean as far as the cops know, so Frank asked me if we could find any kind of evidence against him that would be enough for a warrant to search his warehouse. If they can get that, then _they_ could find something incriminating that violates federal laws."

"Which would give the Feds the opening they need to investigate him for gun smuggling which might lead to the bigger fish."

"Now you're cooking," the judge answered.

"So we go in, take a look around and if we see anything suspicious?"

"Then we tell Frank, Frank tells the Feds, and they take it from there. Should be an easy job."

"Should be…" Mark stopped walking and looked at the judge who turned and stared back. "So let me get this straight, we're going to a warehouse, at night, where a fence is storing and moving weapons and ammunition for known gun smugglers?"

The judge nodded his head. "Yeah, that's about it."

"What's the catch?" McCormick wore a look of disbelief.

"Catch?"

"Judge, the cops could do this. What's the catch?"

The judge cleared his throat. "These shipments are international. The boxes go through Customs, and none of them are stopped or checked out here or in the other countries."

Mark cocked his head and squinted his eyes slightly. "It's a sting operation. The Feds are doing some housecleaning," Mark surmised. "There are some bad guys in their own ranks that they're trying to flush out, so they need to do this quietly."

"And why we're being asked to help out. Unofficially."

That got Mark's attention. "Unofficially? That means when the bad guys go down, we're the ones who took all the risks but we don't get any of the credit, as usual."

"We're not in this for the glory, kiddo. You know that."

"No, but an occasional pat on the back or 'Way to go' would be nice." Mark read through the file some more and dramatically stopped as he reached exactly why Hardcase had a file on the guy. "Wait a minute here, hold the phone. He walked out of your courtroom because whoever got the warrant for his arrest spelled his names _Karns_ instead of Kerns?"

"Technically, they arrested the wrong guy," Hardcastle shrugged as he continued up toward the house. "Now change your shirt, and let's get moving. It should be getting dark by the time we get there."

Mark re-read the dismissal notice in the file thinking that if he had misspelled his former girlfriend's name on the car title on the Coyote then he could have walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom on a technicality too.

_**Chapter 2**_

Milt waited by the truck while McCormick went into the gatehouse for a change of clothes. Mark took his time, dwelling on the whole Karns vs. Kerns thing and about how easy it was for a piece of slime like that to get off because of a simple vowel while he did two years in San Quentin for driving off in his _own_ car. McCormick never had that sort of luck. Now if he had been a lawyer or a judge…

He entered the gatehouse and picked up some old mail sitting on the coffee table. One of the mail pieces was the college catalog where he'd been taking classes. He took a quick glance over at the listings of what night class courses the local college offered for the upcoming semester. He'd been carefully considering going to law school himself if he could save up enough money. He didn't want someone else going to prison for a crime they didn't commit, and no matter how much the judge blustered and argued and cited legal code, Mark would never admit that he was guilty of grand theft auto. Technically, maybe, but truthfully? No. The charge that got handed down to him didn't fit the facts no matter which way Mark twisted it. Even the judge admitted that it was a technical GTA and not a truthful GTA, sort of. Not that the judge would ever admit that Mark shouldn't have gone to prison. In any case, if Mark went to law school and actually became a lawyer, maybe he could help change the system from inside. Goodness knows, he'd been on the outside helping chase down 'technicalities' for over three years now. He wondered if it was the right choice though. Would a client want an ex-con as a lawyer? What kind of reception would he get from other lawyers once it was known he used to be on the inside?

He set aside the course catalog for now, but the thoughts he was having kept chasing after him as he washed up and put some clean clothes on. Heck, the Judge had kept telling him all along that he could do anything he wanted and that he shouldn't let other people stand in his way. Yet the insecurities still lingered. They'd taken hold of him long ago and locked themselves into a dark and lonely place. That was when he was still a child, left to fend for himself for all intensive purposes, when he had had to learn to block out the doubts and replace them with a smart mouth, a sharp wit and a cool head. He remembered being on the streets watching the cons and the hustles from older kids with names like Joey, Petey, and Mac, and even bigger and badder guys as he got older, with nicknames that put the fear of Jesus into anyone like Bulldozer, Bubba and his personal favorite, Stomp. Like every trade he'd learned now and since, young Mark McCormick spent his time watching the practitioners of the con, learning from them and practicing along side them to gain experience. Most weren't vicious sort of criminals. Some were intimidators, yeah, and they loved running the con to get something out of someone that no ordinary means would be able to, but those weren't the tactics Mark utilized. The former group was Mark's role models, and he learned their trade well. Could he really turn those sort of skills, if that's what they were, into something like being an attorney? Hardcastle sure seemed to think so, not that he'd ever approached the Judge about being a lawyer, but Milt had made remarks over the years that conmen and attorneys were a lot a like. Could it really be that easy?

He was a free man now. No probation, no parole, he could come and go as he pleased with his societal debt paid, thank you very much. He could go back to racing, but as much as he loved it, it wasn't what drove his ambition any longer. Helping find the bad guys was more personally and 'professionally' satisfying than racing ever was. And most surprising to him and even more satisfying was his own understanding the law and all of it many nuances. For that, he could only really thank one person, and that was the Judge. Because of that, he found himself with a deeper hunger for learning even more about it. He'd started reading some of the law books in the Judge's library, hunting down obscure cases that he'd hear the Judge mention from time to time on their cases. He'd search out the law that set the technicality that the defendant used to walk out of the Judge's courtroom. Then, he just started reading some of the law books for information's sake. Then there were the law discussions with the Judge himself. Time and time again, he'd ask the Judge about a decision and he found himself enthralled by the Judge's ability to understand all the complexities of a particular case and even more surprising was his easy and informative way he'd explain all the angles to the kid. It prompted McCormick to look even deeper. Finding himself doing research like that spurred him on to take a few night classes to finish up the Bachelor's Degree that he'd started in San Quentin. He was just a few classes away from the degree as it was. Mark McCormick wanted more though. In the furthest, darkest corner of his mind, maybe even without his knowledge at first, he'd set his sights on a law degree. The seed had been sown, thanks in large part to the last three years with the Judge.

He'd always been fascinated by Milton C. Hardcastle's own life story. Somewhere deep inside, he found the drive and ambition to go from sharecropper to policeman to lawyer and then finally to judge intriguing. He found a way to get the money to go to school and raise a family. The judge was a great inspiration, and Mark didn't have to go far to see it. For months, he'd been internally debating with himself. Was he considering law school because _he_ wanted it or was he out to prove that if the Judge could do it, so could he? He kept coming back to _he_ wanted it. _Mark McCormick_ wanted to be a lawyer. It was the simple, honest truth -- no technicality. He wanted it first for himself and secondly, so that maybe he could help other people the way that the Judge had helped him. It was win/win for everyone. Hardcastle knew he'd been taking night classes, but he had no idea that he was close to earning his degree, and he certainly had no clue about law school as Mark had never mentioned it. In any case, law school was probably a year off, and that was IF he could get accepted into a program somewhere. And then there was the money. He didn't have the cash money for law school. The job of 'Tonto' didn't pay that much. Day school or night school, it was going to be expensive. Maybe he could go back to racing part time to earn the money?

There were a lot of questions, and he needed to find the answers for them. Maybe, somehow, something would happen that would help him figure out all the answers.

He heard the truck's horn belting out the judge's impatience for him to get a move on. He put all those thoughts aside. Right now, he had to go play Tonto.

By the time he came back out, the Judge was revving up the engine, anxious to put the truck in gear and get moving.

"What'd you do in there, hire a tailor to make you a new set of clothes?" Hardcastle groused at him.

McCormick, not amused, hopped in the truck and slammed the door as he heard the Judge chide him. "I had grease all over my hands, Judge. It takes a while to get that off, especially when I'm relegated to use the .44 cent bars of soap made by Soap Inc. that you force on me. Where exactly do you get that crud from anyway? It doesn't even come with a label. You know I don't think we're saving anything when I have to use a bar a day just to get clean."

"You know if you stop complaining long enough to see the method behind the things I do, you might be impressed."

"Impressed? Is that what you call it? Impressed by what? That you think you're actually saving money by buying an inferior product? That's just as bad as letting some crook off scot-free because you thought that the cop who put in a _67 hour work week_ needed to be taught a lesson about his penmanship," McCormick finished his rant, with speed and intensity. "How many times have you said that cops are overworked and underpaid?"

"Ah, I see now. I get it. You're upset over Kerns getting off."

"Me? Upset? Judge, you're the one with a file on the guy because he walked out of your courtroom on a stupid technicality! I'm not upset, it's just sometimes I wonder about your motives. Maybe the cop just wrote his E's funny. Why can't you ever cut someone some slack? You could have helped put Kerns behind bars years ago, and I could still be working on my car right now. Did you ever hear of compromise?"

"There's no compromising when you're riding the bench, kiddo. Compromising is something the lawyers do from behind their fancy desks in the downtown high-rises. Besides, we'll put Kerns where he belongs once and for all."

"No offense, Judge, but he should have been in the slammer already, and we could be enjoying a nice, quiet evening at home watching, I don't know, maybe the James Bond movie that's on tonight." Mark leaned back and tried to relax while he could. "So what's the plan gonna be here? Scope the place out tonight? Get a look-see at what's coming and going?"

"No, we're gonna do more than scope and look-see McCormick," the Judge explained as he handed Mark a camera case. "We're going in."

"Going in?" Mark took the camera out of the case and made sure everything from the film to the flash was working. The camera was a bit touchy if it wasn't handled just right, it had a tendency to come apart at times. When was the judge going to splurge for a new camera? "Tonight? Just like that?"

"Yeah, you got a problem with that? I already laid everything out for you, what more do you need to know?"

"Judge, me and large warehouses full of guns, bullets and a potential lunatic with an 'e' instead of an 'a' in his name don't exactly get along."

"I asked you what else do you need to know?" Hardcastle ignored the rant.

"Well, for starters, like who else might be inside? What kind of security system is in there? What kind of odds do we have? What or who else might we be up against?"

"It's a warehouse full of stuff. That's all we're looking for, the stuff, remember? You walk in the door like you work there, take a look around, snap off a few shots and come back out."

"And you honestly think that KARNS," he intentionally emphasized the man's wrong last name, just to continue his point, "isn't going to have at least one person around guarding his stuff? Come on, Judge. There's bound to be someone who knows the people who work there? Somebody that carries a gun?"

"This isn't one of your James Bond movies, McCormick. Kerns may have connections, but he's still a two-bit hood. It's just a regular warehouse in a run-down part of the city. People drive by it simply to get someplace else. There are people loitering around outside during the day, probably at night, too. From what Frank could tell me, Kerns moved into this warehouse about a week ago and isn't too concerned about security. There's nothing to worry about. All we're gonna do is go inside, look around, make some notes, take some pictures, maybe grab a box or a crate and then we're out of there."

"All _we're_ gonna do is grab a crate?" Mark asked. "Geez, Judge, you've already got me trespassing on private property, and now you want me grab a crate and just waltz it out the door? Isn't that theft by taking?"

"From the pictures Frank showed me, there aren't any _No Trespassing_ signs posted, so technically, you're not trespassing. Pictures alone aren't gonna mean much without some physical proof. You could take them anywhere. Sheesh, you should know that. We need actual merchandise to have as evidence. Anyway, once it's outside, I can say I found it _outside_ and in plain sight and on the warehouse grounds. No one has to know you brought it outside. You'll be home in time to watch your _Goldfinger_ and get your double agent spy quota in for the evening. Does that make you feel better?"

McCormick rolled his eyes. "_Goldfinger_ isn't on tonight. The Late Show is running _The Man with the Golden Gun. _I wish it was _Goldfinger_, I like that one better," McCormick explained.

They pulled up into the alley behind the warehouse.

OOOOO

'Not worried about security' definitely described the warehouse. The doors were wide open, giving the two men an easy view of the boxes and crates stacked against the walls. Teens were loitering around out front, and a couple of guys who looked like they could go a few rounds with Mr. T and still keep standing were walking around the perimeter.

Mark's alarm bells were going off.

"See?" the judge pointed out, "Just like I said. Should be easy for you to get in there and take pictures."

"And grab a crate?" Mark whispered back, with that sarcastic, nagging edge to his voice.

"That's why you're going in the back door. Everyone's attention is toward the front." Hardcastle had an explanation for everything.

Mark watched the people milling around for a moment. "I think we'd better wait until the crowd thins out."

"Oh, would you relax? That's a bunch of neighborhood kids hanging out like kids do, probably shooting dice or waiting for something better to come along." Hardcastle quietly moaned.

"The only way those kids could hang around in this neighborhood like that is if they worked for Kerns," Mark said. "In case you haven't noticed, the closest house is about a mile away. And the nearest McDonald's is at least two miles. Those are not the Bowery Boys, and kids don't shoot dice anymore, they carry guns and shoot people nowadays, Hardcastle. They're definitely a part of this."

"They probably help move the electronics or help steal them," Hardcastle guessed.

"Sounds like Fagin's setup in Oliver Twist."

The judge glanced over at Mark. "You've read Oliver Twist?"

"I read lots of books in San Quentin, and I've seen the movie. Not the musical though."

Mark and Milt continued to observe the happy-go-lucky nature of the kids out front, playfully pushing and shoving each other to and fro while laughing and shouting every now and again into the darkening night. The mood-setting scene suddenly changed. Milt and Mark snapped up their attention. It looked like they weren't going to have to wait too long after all. The big guys from inside the warehouse started shooing the teens out the front. Mark took that as his cue to move. Giving the judge a quick pat on the back and getting a nod in return, he quietly edged his way through the shadows until he reached the back door of the warehouse, and then he sneaked in while the big guys were still up front sending away the teens.

Immediately, he saw exactly what they came for. Sitting on various bits of paperwork, bills of lading and shipping tickets on a nearby workbench, a VCR had been dismantled, the insides were ripped out and the framework had been repacked with boxes of bullets. A quick look at the addresses on the paperwork showed that these things were being shipped out world-wide, not just Central and South America.

More alarm bells were going off for him.

McCormick paused momentarily to admire the time, effort and all-in-all smarts that went behind this money-making operation. Yeah, they'd bring them down for the illegal activity, but theses guys got definite bonus points on the obvious creativity. Mixing weaponry and electronics was one novel idea. He scanned over to the next spot beside the VCR. It appeared to be VCR tapes. A quick glance showed that the tapes had been gutted and were filled with plastic bags full of gunpowder.

"Hi, ho, Silver," Mark whispered as he took pictures of the workbench.

He found boxes of VCRs that hadn't been sealed stacked against crates full of sealed boxes. A quick glance around the warehouse revealed much of the same. It was tightly packed with pallet upon pallet of boxes. Kerns was into some big time arms smuggling. This wasn't the setup of a two-bit hood using his warehouse as Grand Central Station for gunrunners. Something else was going on. He didn't have time to think about it right now, he merely had time to get the pictures, grab a box and get out. They could delve a little deeper into the investigation back at Gulls Way, after they grabbed a pizza and decided upon their next plan of action.

Outside, Hardcastle kept waiting and watching. "Come on, McCormick, what's taking you so long?" he mumbled under his breath. His face began to show tiny signs of worry, pursing his lips, squinting his eyes, ears tuned to the slightest little sound. He hadn't told the kid the whole truth. Part of that was to protect Mark (plausible deniability was a good thing to have sometimes), part was because the Feds had informed Frank that some information was still classified due to the ongoing investigation. That meant that Frank had told him NOT to tell McCormick everything since Kerns was under _the Feds_ jurisdiction (almost). Sure, Kerns' file said he was small time, but that was when he was younger. The guy had gone beyond big time a couple of years earlier. There was a better than even chance that he was one of the head honchos who ran the whole gun smuggling operation instead of being someone who just moved the merchandise. He was wanted on federal racketeering charges, smuggling, receiving stolen goods, theft by taking, grand larceny, bribing federal officials, and somewhere out there dangling over his head were possible murder and kidnapping charges that could be filed eventually. The Feds wanted Kerns and his partners bad enough to "overlook" anything that the Judge and Mark had to do to get the evidence as long as the explanation looked good on paper. Hardcastle had his own reasons for wanting Kerns behind bars. That technicality had really stuck in his craw. To have to let the guy go because of a misspelling of his name? That one had really pestered him. Okay, he was a rotten speller too, always had been, but the law was the law. The name was spelled wrong, so that meant Kerns got a walk because it wasn't his legal name on the paperwork. That was part of the game, wasn't it? Making it all look good on paper. To that end, Frank Harper was on board to watch their backs from a procedural standpoint. That was the main reason the judge wasn't concerned with bringing a crate out. Mark would take the pictures, he'd say that he saw the crate outside, it would all "look" legit and legal, easy, right? All the paperwork would have the t's crossed and the i's dotted and names spelled correctly. That's how he had convinced himself, but now the doubts were beginning to bubble to the surface. Something was definitely fishy about this whole thing, like why had they been asked to investigate.

As the Judge sat there waiting for McCormick to appear, more questions began to invade his thoughts. If Kerns was the head honcho, then why was the warehouse so open? Wouldn't he be more careful? Unless it was a trap? To see how much the Feds knew or how far they'd go? Maybe to weed out someone in his own organization he thought might be working with the Feds?

And the biggest question of all, what was taking the kid so damn long? He didn't need to do a photo-essay for _The Times_.

Just then, a Mercedes Benz drove up to the front of the warehouse, and Kerns stepped out.

What the hell? Hardcastle's throat dropped down to the pit of his stomach. This was NOT good. He saw a pay phone nearby and discreetly hurried over to call Frank who was waiting nearby in case Hardcastle needed him. Even if nothing happened, he needed backup on the scene two minutes ago. It would look better 'on paper' if the cops were there. Besides, by the looks of it, Mark would probably need 'official' backup now.

"Come on, kid get yourself out of there…" he mumbled as he waited to have Frank dispatched to their location.

OOOOO

Mark had taken the last picture on the roll of film. He had to talk to Hardcase about getting a better camera. The one he carried was almost ready to fall apart causing him to nearly drop it. He caught it before it hit the floor, thereby preventing the crash from alerting anyone to his presence. He made a mental note to wear a jacket with pockets the next time he had to use the camera. At least then he'd have a place to store it. Mark found one of the boxes with the VCR sealed in it. Forget the crate. He'd carry out the box.

Just then he heard voices coming his way. He ducked behind one of the larger crates before anyone could see him. From his vantage point, he saw two big guys and someone else he didn't quite recognize walking back toward his hiding place. He tried to get a good view of the newcomer. He almost looked like Kerns, but this guy didn't look anything like the picture in the file. This guy was pretty clean cut and wearing a three-piece suit, looking every bit the part of a man from GQ. What the heck was going on?

"No one's been by, boss," one of the big guys told him. "The kids have been keeping a lookout. Maybe the cops didn't take the bait."

Mark crouched lower and listened closely and wondered what they meant by bait?

"According to my sources, they took it. I'm telling you two, this doesn't smell right to me. Something is definitely going on here so watch your backs," Kerns said. "Could be that they're not coming in tonight. We'll set it up for tomorrow, too. Go ahead and lock up. I've got some paperwork for the greater good to finish up in the office, so I'll be upstairs."

"Think it's a good idea for you to be here alone?"

Kerns looked around the warehouse, "Probably not. One of you stick around. I won't be long."

"Right, boss."

_Boss?_ Mark thought fast. That was Kerns? Could it be? Kerns wasn't a two-time hood, not no way, not no how. What was going on and what had Hardcastle gotten them into this time? They had stopped talking and now were dispersing.

He watched Kerns walk up a staircase he hadn't noticed before and go through a door at the top. There was a small overhang of offices up on the make-shift second floor of the warehouse. From the offices, you could easily see just about everything below. One of the big guys walked out the front, leaving the second big guy to start shutting doors and locking them.

McCormick had to move fast because if he stayed where he was at, he'd be in the line of sight of Kerns.

Mark reached down and took the box he'd found, tucked it up under his arm and began to move toward the back door. As soon as he saw the big guy's back turned to him, he took off in a flat out run.

"HEY!"

OOOOO

Hardcastle waited. He hated waiting. Kerns had been in there, what, two minutes already? Where the devil was McCormick? It couldn't possibly be taking him this long. He'd been in there long enough to get pictures and to grab _something_ by now.

He forced himself to be patient. Right now, there was no need to go in there when everything was quiet. The kid must have heard them inside and was simply waiting for the perfect time to exit inconspicuously. The judge saw one of the big guys come out of the front of the warehouse and get in a car. Good, those odds were a little better. That meant one big guy and Kerns still inside.

Mark was still inside too.

Where are you, kid? You need to get yourself out of there before you're seen.

Then, Hardcastle heard, "HEY!"

OOOOO

McCormick sprinted for the closest doorway he could find, but carrying a box and a partially broken down camera slowed him up considerably. The bullets shot over his head and into the nearby wall. Mark ducked as he heard them approaching and then fell to the ground to avoid the repetitive gunfire. No doubt, given the fact that they were inside a warehouse loaded to the gills with weapons and ammo, they wouldn't keep on firing at him, right? Wrong! He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the big guy charging in his direction, aiming his gun almost directly at him. _Shit!_ He didn't plan on any of this happening. It was supposed to be easy in and easy out and now here he was in the midst of some goon's cross-hairs. He HAD to get out of there fast! The place was full of explosives, and this idiot was shooting at him – but he kept missing? This wasn't the place to be where the fireworks began.

As soon as Kerns heard the commotion, he came barreling out of his office and down the stairs, his gun in his hand. Mark saw him look in his direction just as he jumped up off the ground, box and camera secured by his hands and arms, and he rushed toward the back door as more bullets sped his way.

Kerns came down the stairs and took the opposite direction of his goon in an effort to trap McCormick inside. The way things were playing out, Kerns and his henchman could block the door and keep Mark from getting to it.

Mark noticed Kerns' movement right away. He was briefly attempted to tip over some of the boxes as he moved past them, but with all the gunfire going off around him, he opted not to set off a potential explosion. Just maybe though, there was a way he could maneuver himself through the maze of pallets and get to the door while the two gun-wielding lunatics would wind up crashing into each other. He felt a little bit like one of those lab mice in the endless maze.

In order for his idea to come to fruition, he'd have to listen and listen hard. Any little sound had to be quickly interpreted and processed so that he could make the correct move and get toward the door. An arm brush against the side of a crate, a soft shoe slide on the concrete floor, even the echo of the gunfire could all tell him clues that could get him out of there safe and sound. He needed to concentrate and listen.

As still as he could possibly be, he waited. And then the first clue. One of them made a noise with his mouth to alert the other. Yeah, it was definitely a human sound, McCormick thought. It came from the right and to the front of Mark. He managed to stay completely motionless, which was becoming increasingly difficult with a box of weapons tucked under his arm and a camera almost falling apart in his hand. He heard some footsteps, fairly quick, coming from the other direction. They'd gone a little too far and were past him by maybe 15 feet. From the other direction again, he heard one of the boxes of merchandise get banged into. That was followed up by a quiet, 'damnit.' It was definitely the big goon in front of him (his gun aimed over Mark's head) and Kerns behind him.

And then there was the second worst possible thing he could hear -- the sound of police sirens getting closer and closer by the second. That was going to tick off Kerns and his goon and in turn they presented him with the absolute worst sound of all -- the sound a gun being cocked, right behind him.

_**Chapter 3**_

The big guy in the car must have heard the shout and the shots as well. He gunned his engine and took off for the road. Without hesitating, Hardcastle jumped in his truck and, in a maneuver that he thought would even impress Mark, raced the big guy to the entrance where he blocked the car with his truck just as Frank Harper and two police units came up on the scene.

"Don't move!" Frank yelled to the big guy as the cops yanked him out of his car. "Milt! What's happening?"

"Shots fired inside! McCormick's…." Milt's anxious voice was interrupted.

KABOOM!

The blast of the warehouse exploding knocked everyone to the ground. Burning debris rained down on them, the stench of smoke and burning plastic assailed their nostrils as the fire shot up from the roof. A smaller, secondary explosion made their ears ring.

"Oh, no," Frank muttered. "Call for the fire truck!" he yelled to one of the officers.

Hardcastle jumped to his feet and ran back toward the warehouse, Frank barely a pace behind. "McCORMICK!"

Harper hastened his pace and grabbed Milt by the arm, "Milt, you can't go running in there! The place is an inferno."

The judge hurriedly shrugged him off, "McCormick's still in there, Frank! I gotta get him!"

Frank reached for him again and held onto him long enough to say, "We'll try to get in there, but if it's too bad, we wait, you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Milt said ignoring Frank and everything he was saying. He had every intention of going in, police order or not. He turned his attention back to the burning building. They hurried toward the back of the building where Milt knew Mark had gone into. He hoped he had gotten out the same way. "McCORMICK!" Milt kept screaming, each time yelling louder, the volume increasing over the roar of the ever-growing fire that engulfed the warehouse, the smoke billowing out the doors and now-broken windows. The combination of fire, smoke and night time darkness made it next to impossible to see anything.

Nothing could be heard above the burning firestorm.

The building was surrounded in a fiery blaze with black smoke pluming outwards, making it hard to see anything.

Mark couldn't still be in that inferno, could he? Milt pressed his eyes closed for a moment as the smoke was already beginning to burn them. Just let him be out back, please let him be there.

"McCORMICK!" Now there was a much different urgency, almost fear in the sound of the Judge's voice, much different from the good-natured yelling that took place back at Gulls Way.

The judge was dangerously close to entering the flame-filled warehouse in search of McCormick. He stood by, watching the molten hot flames lick and crawl at and around the door frame. By God, if McCormick was in there, he had to get him out. At the very least, he owed that to him. He stood at the last remaining door opening that was still relatively clear, aside from the black smoke that poured out of it. Leaning forward, raising his arm to protect his face and just as he was about to leap into the fiery black hole to find the kid, Frank Harper called out to him, just a few feet away.

"Milt!" Frank hollered and made up the ground between himself and the Judge. "Wait!" He reached out and grabbed his arm and pulled him back from the smoke and pointed towards the area where the truck had originally been parked. "He's over here!" Because the roar of the blazing fire was so loud, he repeated himself and motioned, "Mark's over here! Looks like he got thrown clear. Come on!" He began to drag Milt away from the deadly fire and the smoke.

Hardcastle turned, dropped his arms and his guard and saw McCormick's dark unmoving body lying in a heap on the ground, the thick smoke almost completely encasing him. A million thoughts went through his head, the top one being his gratitude that he wasn't inside in the inferno. He instantly ran over to him and dropped to a knee and ran his hand over his own face first, terrified by what he saw and hoping that maybe this was all a bad dream. As he wiped away some of the smoke out of his own eyes, he opened them up to see the same horrid scene in front of him. The back of Mark's clothes were actually smoking, had they absorbed the major impact of the blast and smoke? The front of his clothes that he could see seemed to be in somewhat better shape, but still, there was damage. Pausing for a second, he softly put his hand on the cloth-brittle back of his friend and waited until he could feel Mark breathing, even though it seemed shallow. "He's alive, help me roll him over," he called out to Frank as he glanced up to him and using both hands he carefully turned the unconscious man over to his back, quick to now put his own hand under McCormick's head to cradle so that it would not come in contact with the charred concrete ground. Blood, dirt and smoke covered McCormick's face and clothes. The judge did a quick inventory, "He's breathing, and there's no bullet wound. Looks like maybe he just took the brunt of the blast. Maybe he wasn't inside, huh? I can't really tell if he's got any broken bones. I don't want to jostle him too much."

Harper had never heard Milt ramble on like he was and before he could get in a word he watched as the Judge's eyes scanned McCormick over and over again. "Someone was shooting in there, Frank. There are at least two more guys around here somewhere, one of them is Kerns. I saw him go in, but didn't see him come out," he complained to Frank. His attention quickly went back to McCormick when the younger man murmured and groaned in obvious distress. Milt wanted to clean up Mark's face, but he pulled his hand back for fear of injuring him. If he had burns or cuts, he didn't want to risk spreading infection. He knew he had to wait and let the paramedics do their job. He leaned down and whispered to him instead, "Easy there, sport. It's all over for now. We got ya. We're gonna get you to a hospital real soon."

Frank grabbed his hand held radio. "This is Lieutenant Frank Harper. We're gonna need an ambulance…."

The Judge tuned out Harper's voice as he took a closer look at McCormick. No, there was no bullet wound but there was telling just how far he'd been thrown from the blast. It could have been a good twenty feet or more. The way the warehouse exploded, the sound and the immediate fire, God, what had he gotten them into? The burning, smoky smell made him nauseous, and he cringed at the sight of what he hoped weren't potentially life-threatening injuries. Was he running out of the warehouse when it exploded? Or had he been blasted out? Only McCormick would be able to answer that question, if he'd be able to answer that question. He still had the camera clutched in his hand. Damn thing was breaking apart. Milt gently pried Mark's fingers from around the camera and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. It would wait until later right now the concern was for McCormick, and McCormick alone.

The Judge took another look at the young man's bloody and bruised face as he cradled his head in his hands. His breathing was shallow and labored, like he couldn't get any air in his lungs. "Frank, give me a hand here, will ya? He's having trouble breathing. I wanna get behind him a little bit, raise him up. Maybe it'll help his breathing till the paramedics get here. Can you hear how raspy he sounds? I don't like the looks of his face and head either. They look burned." Frank dropped to his knees and carefully helped hold onto Mark while the Judge situated himself behind the kid and then Frank cautiously set him down into Milt's lap.

"I got a blanket in my car, I'll go get it. The ambulance is on its way," Frank said, sprinting to his car.

Milt scanned the area for any other sign of life and didn't spot a thing. He noticed that where Mark was lying, if the truck had still been there, he would have been able to use it as a barricade when the explosion occurred.

Regret and remorse filled the Judge's face and thoughts. What had he been thinking? Why had he moved the doggone truck just to stop that one guy from getting away? McCormick was obviously counting on him to be there. "Damn it, kid. I really messed this one up," he whispered to the unconscious McCormick.

Frank came running back with the blanket from his car. "This might help 'til the paramedics get here. Did he wake up at all yet?"

"No, no real movement or sound. Maybe it's just a concussion huh? It must have been a helluva wallop, huh?"

Frank gave Milt a pat on his shoulder, "He's a tough kid. Maybe it's not bad. We'll get him checked out right away. Help's on the way."

It was Harper's turn to review the immediate area. "Milt, look at this," Frank pointed toward a VCR box lying a few feet away. Carefully, he opened the box and found a brand new VCR inside, the framework shattered by the explosion. Inside were boxes of ammunition. He walked over to it and reached down to pull out one of the cartridges. Frank saw one bullet sticking up through its container and grabbed it. "Looks like the kid got the goods. Hollow points," he muttered.

"He didn't get them," Milt said cautiously. "You and I found them outside the warehouse AFTER the explosion."

Frank suddenly realized the implications of what he said. No one saw Mark remove anything from the warehouse, so no one could swear to anything. "Right. Found them here. Look at this. Cop killers. These guys are really playing dirty. I'll take this and log it in." Frank walked a little further away to check for any other evidence that might have blown clear from the warehouse.

While he was out of earshot, the judge could only begin to wonder about the mess that they now were both intimately involved in. Hollow points, the judge thought to himself. He looked back down at the battered man lying unconscious in his arms who still did not show any signs of waking. "What did I do to us, _to you_ now, McCormick? I think we're in too deep. I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't mean for this to happen. It was supposed to have been an easy job."

He didn't notice that Frank had returned to his side and heard him talking to Mark. "It's not your fault, Milt," Frank told him. "Mark knows the risks."

Hardcastle ignored the comment completely, which seemed odd to Frank at first, given the kid's present condition, but he brushed it off for the time being. Milt said, "Kerns was inside and so was one other guy," the judge repeated. "Any sign of them?"

Before Frank could answer, the fire truck's siren interrupted him. "We won't know until the firefighters can get inside. The officers are looking around outside, but if they were in that building…"

Hardcastle sighed. What in the literal hell had the Feds got them into?

_**Chapter 4**_

"Is his name spelled with a Mac or a Mc??"

Hardcastle said, "Mark McCormick, with an Mc," as he dug his insurance paperwork out of his wallet. His smoke-smudged fingers left a fingerprint on the card.

"That won't be necessary, Judge," the nurse said, typing his name into the fancy computer she stood behind. "I found him in the computer. We have the information from the last time Mr. McCormick was here. Is the rest of the information still current?"

Last time he was there…he didn't need to go there right now and relive any of that again, but here it was being swept to the front of his memory. "Yeah, everything's the same." Only this time, it wasn't Mark in critical condition being rushed to surgery to get a bullet taken out of him after lying in a ditch for who knows how long…

This time, it was Mark being rushed to the Emergency Trauma Center after surviving a gunpowder/ammo-fueled explosion of a warehouse. At least the trip in the ambulance this time hadn't included his heart stopping and the paramedics doing CPR to revive him like they did the last time. No, this time, it wasn't quite that life threatening. Milt didn't have to watch his friend fight to live, even though right now there was enough smoke in his lungs that he had to fight for every breath. The paramedics monitored his lungs the entire ride, increasing the oxygen level all the while and just coming short of having to put a tube down his throat to help him breath. Milt sat back and wondered what sort of injuries lay beneath the layers of soot, smoke, dirt and grime that covered McCormick from head to toe.

"Is there any way you could find out how he's doing?" Hardcastle asked.

"The doctor will…"

"Yeah, yeah," the judge interrupted her. "That's what they always say. _The doctor will come out and talk to me. _Look, the doctor'll tell me the details. I just need to know how Mark's doing at the moment. Could you check? Please?" He was forcibly insistent with the woman.

The nurse was one of the few who had some experience dealing with the Judge. Last time, when McCormick was there for the gunshot wound, she'd witnessed the worry and friendship the Judge felt for the younger man. The young man was in critical condition, but perhaps it was the judge's steadfast stubbornness that helped McCormick pull through? Some fathers weren't as close to their sons. She also knew that the Judge wouldn't stop asking any of the medical personnel how McCormick was doing until he knew _something_…

"I'll be right back," she said with a new understanding as she stood and walked toward the Trauma Center.

Hardcastle sat back in the uncomfortable chair. Exploding VCRs. If the kid was awake, he'd have some smart remark for that. Milt couldn't think of exactly what he'd say. He was always coming up with some comment that kept him on his toes.

Jeez, kid, what did we get into this time?

The more Milt thought about it, the more things were coming together, and he didn't like where his thoughts were taking him. Okay, so Kerns was clearly a bigger, badder guy than originally thought. But if he was THAT big and THAT bad, why were the Feds willing to use him and McCormick to get some general information on the guy? They must have known. Why were they wanting to let Frank get his warrant before they got theirs? Was there more to this than some Feds who had gone bad?

Gun smuggling. Big time gun running. What was the angle that Milt couldn't see?

Unless …

A stray thought crossed Milt's mind. The Feds didn't want to be seen yet. They didn't want to be seen involved yet. Why? Did they not want to tip their hand? What if the Feds wanted to capture Kerns but keep his business operational? And if they did, then why would they want to do that? "Supply lines are there, contacts are already established, distribution network already in place…" Milt whispered to himself. The business was a growing concern already, what was the connection? But then again, could it be a sting operation? What were the Feds trying to do or, perhaps, not do?

Frank Harper came through the door at that moment. "How's he doing, Milt?"

The Judge was a million miles away in his mind until Frank softly touched his arm to bring him back to the current reality. Milt bristled inside from the brief bit of contact. "Ah, I don't know yet, Frank," he stated somberly. "The nurse went to check. The paramedics had him on oxygen the whole way in, but they were worried about his breathing. Damn it, I gotta stop doing this to him." His voice was flat, distant, as if his attention were elsewhere.

"Milt?"

"Ya know, this entire operation has stunk since the moment the Feds asked us to help," Milt observed. He'd turned his focus back to what he could control, which right now was trying to figure out who exactly was behind this whole dirty scheme.

"I didn't want to involve you or Mark either, but the Feds insisted on _anonymous_ help. I couldn't help but think of you guys. I didn't know at the time that he was one of your technicalities."

Milt looked up at his friend. "What's going on back at the warehouse?"

Frank bypassed the discussion of Mark for now, it was obvious that Milt wanted to find out just what had happened at the warehouse that went so terribly wrong. "It's a dustbowl. It and everything in it is burned to the ground. Here's the kicker, if all those boxes had ammo or gunpowder in them, the explosion would have been a lot worse, so in terms of casualties and such, we caught a real break. The demolition guys think that there was just enough munitions there to make everything look legit. They think they found some remains of what might have been already exploded surface-to-air missile, but the damage is so bad, they can't be sure until they send the parts to the lab. The only thing we were able to salvage so far was that one VCR lying beside Mark. It's too early to tell if there's any sign that someone else was in the warehouse. They're gonna have to sift through the ashes." Frank watched Milt closely, he knew he was listening and yet he still was a million miles away. He could only begin to wonder who Milt thinking about.

"Judge?" the nurse came back in the room.

Just like a light switch, Milt completely changed his focus back to McCormick, "How is he?" He stood up in a hurry.

"I was able to find out that he's still unconscious, he has a concussion, some first degree burns. He's breathing on his own, but they have him on oxygen. He's taken a lot of toxic smoke into his lungs. They're waiting for some test results, x-rays and blood work and a pulmonologist needs to see him before they make any final determinations. The doctor is still with him, and…"

"And he'll be out to talk to me as soon as he can. Yeah, I know. Thank you for finding out," he said gruffly, a little more than dissatisfied with finding out things he basically already knew. Hospitals were so damn frustrating.

The nurse smiled as Frank and the judge walked into the hallway.

Harper had been a cop long enough to know that he needed to shift the conversation back to what had happened. "Okay, Milt, spill it. What are you thinking?"

Hardcastle looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. "Kerns was small time who apparently hit it big. He's smuggling electronics and then gets into guns. He's shipping to Central and South America. The Feds think they have some dirty coworkers and they're trying to flush them out while stopping a gun smuggler. But here's the clincher – they don't want to show their hand. Why? Why did they come to you? To see if local law enforcement could give them a way in? That didn't work, so they have you come to me and McCormick. We can go where the police can't. What we saw proved that Kerns is big time with a much bigger piece of the pie. Still, where are the Feds? They're not at the warehouse, are they?"

"No, they didn't show up after I called them to let them know the warehouse went up."

"There's no merchandise for them," Milt observed quietly. "Frank, what if the Feds wanted the operation for themselves with Kerns and his partners out of the way? Maybe set up some kind of gun trade with other countries? Influence international policy by supplying guns to certain political factions?"

"Global gun running orchestrated by the government? Milt, did you get hit in the head? Inhale too much smoke? I think we need to take a step back. This can't be that big."

"Think about it. They didn't want to be seen anywhere near any of this!" Hardcastle waited as Frank thought through the idea. What if they had been used so the Feds could get their hands on the operation quickly, quietly and without being seen?

"Okay, well, yeah, the idea holds water, Milt. Let's just hope you're wrong. I'll see what I can find out on my end. You stay out of it," Frank warned him. Not that he had to worry. Hardcastle wouldn't do anything stupid as long as Mark was hurt. He'd wait. The Lone Ranger didn't do much without Tonto these days.

"Then again, this really could be them trying to ferret out some bad guys they don't know about and not letting Kerns know they're on to him," Milt muttered.

"Could be," Frank answered. "Don't go looking for trouble right now, Milt. We'll figure out the angle soon enough."

They waited in the hallway, leaning against the wall, staying out of everyone's way as they kept watch for the doctor. Finally, their patience was rewarded when they saw a Trauma Center doctor head their way.

"Judge Hardcastle?" He shook Milt's hand. "I'm Doctor Guthrie. I'm the attending physician for Mr. McCormick. You may not remember me. I was assisting on the surgical team when Mr. McCormick was brought in for that gunshot wound… "

"How is he?" Hardcastle asked quickly, dismissing talk of another time he'd rather forget.

"He's still unconscious and from the sound of his lungs, he's breathed in a substantial amount of smoke, but he _is_ able to breathe on his own. We think he'll recover from that in a few hours." Milt noticed immediately the doctor's emphasis on the word 'is.' Was Mark not breathing on his own before? He was going to ask, but the doctor continued. "We've got him on some O2 just to help clear him up. There's no sign of skull fracture, but he does have a severe concussion from the apparent explosion, some bruised ribs, one cracked one and pulled muscles in his back and abdomen. He's going to be a bit sore and should take it easy once he wakes up. There are some minor burns that we're treating right now as well. It looks like he was very lucky in that respect. My first guess is that from the looks of his back, he was running away from the blast when it occurred. It's bruised and has some minor burns. Possibly, he wasn't standing erect. He may have been bent over a bit so the blast basically went over him."

"But he'll be okay?" Frank asked.

"I believe so. Once he wakes up."

"Then he will wake up?" Milt interrupted him.

"We believe so. Judge Hardcastle, I won't tell you not to worry. With head injuries, there's no way to say for certain. He's not out of the woods yet. He was standing very close to an explosion, breathed in a lot of bad smoke and has a bad concussion. He isn't showing any signs of waking yet. The next 24 hours will tell us more about his condition, but from all physical standpoints, we believe he should recover."

"Can I see him?" the judge asked.

The doctor motioned for the men to follow him. "As I've said, he's on oxygen and an IV. We're monitoring his heart rate as well, so don't let the machines concern you. He's in a much better state than we could have hoped for given the circumstances. There's every reason to be optimistic."

Optimistic. Now there truly was a word that could describe Mark McCormick even after all the crap the kid had been dealt for his entire life: his father walking out, his mom working until the day she died trying to keep a roof over their head and food on the table, Mark being left in the hands of relatives who had no regard for him and then the State which had even less. He was out on the streets at far too young an age, making ends meet the only way he could by scraping, clawing and turning to unconventional methods. By the time he'd made his way cross-country to California, beginning in New Jersey with stops along the eastern shore and then through the south, he was old and wise beyond his years. He could have been cynical, habitual and criminal, but something inside Mark McCormick made him something else.

Optimism.

He was one of the good guys. Street smart, skeptical, sarcastic and yet optimistic through it all, his illegal run-ins never bore the malicious side of crime. The only person ever really hurt by his actions had been himself. He'd done his time, and when Milt had made the offer of 'Tonto,' neither one of them really knew where it would all lead to. They both obviously took a shine to one another and on paper, their working agreement seemed doom to fail. Two complete opposites in every way imaginable. Except maybe for optimism. They both shared it and with their blossoming friendship growing, they harvested it abundantly.

Hardcastle's mind had drifted miles away from the immediate conversation when it was yanked back to the present as a nurse walked up to the doctor and showed him a clipboard. Milt noticed quickly that the name McCormick was written at the top of the paper. "Give him 10 more of MS IV push," Doctor Guthrie wrote out the order on the clipboard.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No, not really. Just results of some preliminary tests results. And he's exhibiting some additional indications of intense pain. I'd like to take another look at Mr. McCormick before you go in." The doctor had reached over and touched Milt's arm, "Perhaps you two would like a moment or two to wash up? I can have a nurse take you to a private washroom? Maybe get you a set of scrubs to wear?"

"I'd like to see him," Milt said.

"It's going to be a few minutes anyway, Judge," Guthrie tried to convince him.

"Go on, Milt," Frank urged him. "You go first. You look like you just walked out of a coal mine."

Hardcastle acquiesced, looking at Frank who was also a bit grubby and smoky, "Yeah, okay then. I suppose I should scrub off some of this stuff." He looked down at his gritty and grimy arms.

A nurse walked up to him and led him to the washroom.

Milt closed the door behind him and for a moment, stood in the center of the room. He took as deep a breath as he could stand and then walked over to the sink. He quickly went about his business, foaming up the soap on the washcloth that the nurse had given him, scrubbing every bit of muck and grime as he could from his face and arms. He washed the soap out of the washcloth and likewise did so to his face and arms and with one final rinse, he took the cloth and completely bathed his face with the cooling water. He set the cloth on the side of the sink and watched himself in the mirror as the droplets formed and ran off his face. No one could tell there were tears mixed in.

OOOOO

The nurse led them down the hallway. Hospital corridors seemed to all be the same, Milt thought to himself. They were long, somewhat barren, a proverbial gauntlet that people walk down to some unknown expectation. The rooms were indistinct and bland as well. They were a type of cheerless cell without bars and locked doors. In the Trauma Center, there weren't any corridors or rooms, just areas cordoned off with cloth curtains. Behind each curtain was someone hurt, someone whose body had been insulted and violated by burns or impacts of car crashes. Behind one of these cloth-encircled cells, an unconscious Mark McCormick was laying hooked to machines monitoring him, unable to give the judge or Frank a welcoming grin or a smart-aleck remark. It was all too damn cold and impersonal.

That was the scene that Milt walked in on. He walked over to the side of the narrow bed and placed his hand on Mark's head, careful to avoid touching the burns. "I'm sorry, kid. I never dreamed this would happen. It was supposed to have been an easy job," he whispered. "We shouldn't have gotten involved in this one."

The last time… oh, the last time had been bad. When they finally told the judge that Mark was awake but not talking to conserve his strength, he'd walked over to his bed, placed his hand on Mark's head and then his cheek. He felt like it was something the kid needed right then. He needed McCormick to know someone was there for _him_, that someone was talking to him, but more importantly, that someone cared. He'd come so close to dying that day, and Milt had sworn to himself 'never again'…

_Milt stepped up to the bedrails and looked down at Mark. Besides having the IV's, blood and monitors hooked up to him, he now had a nasal cannula for oxygen. McCormick must have sensed he was near, because he opened his tired eyes and tried to look up at him. Even being propped up, he was having a hard time seeing Hardcastle. Milt noted how pale and pasty and how exhausted Mark looked. The kid didn't look like he could talk even if he wanted to. He was conscious, but he still looked like death warmed over. Granted he'd been raised up in the bed, but any bit of exertion, probably even breathing itself looked like it took every bit of strength he had. Hardcastle reached over the bed railing and patted McCormick's hand._

"_Hi there, kiddo--welcome back," he said, not a touch of his usual gruffness in his voice. "You gave me a scare." In an unusual burst of emotion and out of normal character, Milt took his hand from Mark's and laid it on the kid's forehead and then ran it warmly down his cheek. Something deep inside him just told him it was something he needed to do for the kid._

_McCormick closed his eyes and drank in the affection. It wasn't something Hardcastle had ever done before, and the young man was genuinely and deeply touched by it. In that short moment he felt that nothing else in his life would ever mean as much to him. Milt noticed the serene look that passed over the kid's face. When McCormick opened his eyes back up, he tried to form a smile, but even that took more effort than he had. His eyes locked onto the judge's, though, and they both understood the same unwritten message._

Perhaps to some it had seemed like a fatherly gesture and maybe in reality that's what it had been. All Milt knew at the time was that his friend, his very best friend, was teetering on the edge of life and death, unable to speak, and yet, despite the pain he was enduring, he was letting him know that he was fighting to hold on with everything he had. That night, the kid's eyes told him everything, past, present and future, the same as his gesture had told the kid. They hadn't needed words at that moment. The merest gesture conveyed a thousand words.

A cleaned up Frank stepped into the area a little further and took a long look at Mark. He was pale, unmoving. Blasted Feds. If they hadn't been so adamant about using "anonymous help," if Frank hadn't thought of using Hardcastle and McCormick… "Milt, I'm gonna go check into those theories of yours. You may be on to something. Are you staying here?"

"Until he wakes up, yeah. It's bad to wake up alone in a hospital," the Judge told him flatly.

"Tell you what, I'll stop by your house and get you some clean clothes so you won't have to wear those scrubs. I'll bring them by in the morning. Call me if there's any news or if you need anything," Frank said and went out of the area, not needing to press the Judge on his feelings.

Milt stood there, looking down once again at McCormick's battered body. This time, he took the tips of his fingers and laid it against Mark's unbandaged cheek, about the only spot that hadn't been burned, bruised or cut. And even though the kid was unconscious, he knew he'd gotten the message, but he added it softly, "I'm right here for you, kiddo, you're not alone. Like always."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 5**_

The night was long and utterly quiet. About an hour after Milt had seen him in the trauma area, Mark was moved to a private room. The nurse came out to collect the judge from the waiting room and direct him to the appropriate area.

"I explained to Dr. Guthrie that you'd want to visit Mr. McCormick beyond regular hours. And I assured him that you wouldn't be any trouble or disturb him in any way," She smiled as she waited for him to confirm her statements.

He gave her just a hint of a smile. "Of course, I understand, thank you," he managed to say.

"I put some magazines in there for you to read as well. It might be a long night."

"As long as a good morning follows, I'll be just fine," Milt answered.

They stopped at the Room 3089. "Here he is. I'm just down the hall at the desk. If you need anything, just let me know. There's also a buzzer at his side." She pushed the door open for him to enter.

There never was an easy way to enter a hospital room. Milt remembered back when Nancy had given birth to Tommy, and he went to see her. He'd been in the waiting room for more than a day, paced and worried from one end to the other along with the other soon-to-be-fathers. One by one, the nurse came in and announced to a father that his child had arrived and then direct him to where he needed to go. Milt waited his turn. Finally, a nurse came in, said his name and took him back to Nancy's hospital room. He felt dumb and clumsy as he entered and saw her sitting up, holding the newborn baby, the image was straight out of '50's sitcom. He couldn't even remember if he told he loved her or what exactly he had said or did. His legs felt like anchors, his arms felt like they stretched to the floor. His heart pounded, forget about his mind and thoughts and his tongue was flopping around inside his mouth, unable to even form a single word. He did remember seeing his son lying there in Nancy's arms, healthy, hearty, and sleeping. He thanked all the powers-that-were for the safe and healthy arrival of their son.

And that was the good side to a hospital.

This was the other.

The light was subdued, soft and subtle, yet bright enough for Hardcastle to see each and every burn, cut or abrasion on Mark's face. They'd gotten him cleaned up real well by now and the room smelled like typical antiseptic. The cuts and bruising didn't seem quite as bad as they had at the warehouse. And he was alive. Now it was time for the healing to begin. He stood along side of the bed and watched him sleep. His breathing was still funny. The smoke he had inhaled was not exiting nearly as quickly as it had entered. He'd get a few breaths in normally, but just as quickly, his chest would shudder and Milt would see just how difficult it was for him to get the air he wanted.

While he stood there, another nurse came in to check the IV drip and she also injected some pain medication into the solution as well.

"What's that for?" the judge asked her.

"Something to make him a little more comfortable. It's a pain med that Dr. Guthrie ordered."

Milt nodded his understanding as she charted her work and left the two of them. He finally took a seat in the nearby chair but not before picking up the stack of magazines the other nurse had left for him. There was no table nearby to put them on, so for now, he set them underneath the chair. He'd probably browse or read them later, once this initial trepidation wore off.

One thing was for sure, the pain meds for McCormick weren't doing a thing for his labored breathing. His body continued to tremble as he sometimes struggled for necessary air, his lungs choked with the smoke from the explosion, causing him to wheeze and strain for every breath. The judge wished he could do something to help him, but he also realized the doctors and the nurses had everything under control. This was now something that McCormick's own body had to recover from. It didn't stop Milt from wishing it was him in the bed rather than McCormick. He never intended to put Mark in harm's way over all this.

"Kiddo, I keep promising you that I won't put you in this sort of danger any more, and I keep breaking my word. You didn't sign on for any of _this_." Unconsciously he let his hand slide in on McCormick's forearm, and as he continued to talk in a low voice, he rubbed it up and down, careful to avoid the IV and the bandages.

"I think I got us mixed up in a real bad one this time, McCormick. I'm not so sure who all the players are or even the whole story on this one. Frank's gonna help us out, hopefully sort it out and get to the bottom of it, wherever _that_ may be. Right now, I think we're all in the dark. But I promise you that I'll find out why this happened. We'll get whoever's behind all this. You just need to concentrate on getting better." He softly tapped on his arm and then went back to the rhythmic motion of rubbing it, before deciding to take his limp hand, wrapping his own around it, giving it a caring squeeze of reassurance before letting it come to rest inside of his.

It wasn't long before the judge drifted off in the chair beside him.

OOOOO

_It was a deserted racetrack._

_Mark stood alone in the center of the track and looked up at the stands. The bleachers were empty, completely devoid of any human activity. The infield was silent. He was all alone. A cold wind whipped around him, swirling up dried up leaves, chilling him to the core. _

_Mark turned around and saw a racecar with his name on it. He reached in, picked up the helmet on the driver's seat and then climbed in through the narrow window. He put the helmet on his head and cranked the engine. He raced along the empty track, alone, then suddenly there were the other cars lining up at the pole ahead of him. He took his position near the start of the lineup and waited for them to wave the green flag to start the race. When the flag dropped, he found himself left behind in the dust, yet he persevered to catch up with them._

_Somehow, Mark knew that this was a dream. He wasn't racing right then. At least, he wasn't involved in a NASCAR race. Why was he there?_

_All the while, the cold wind blew through the window of his car that left him chilled._

OOOOO

The same soft lighting woke Hardcastle up with a tiny startle. He checked his watch, and noted that he had dozed off for about an hour. He sat up a little straighter and pinched at his eyes and nose in an effort to wake himself up.

McCormick hadn't moved. His breathing was the same; still labored, still uneven. Every once and awhile, the kid coughed, apparently in an effort to clear his lungs. Then he'd settle back down, never waking up. Hardcastle reached under the chair and plucked off the first magazine from the top of the pile. It was the latest issue of _Field and Stream. _"See there, kiddo? This is what we should be spending our time doing, dropping the line and landing a salmon or a trout." He sat back and got slightly lost in an article about inland lakes.

It wasn't too long until McCormick began to make some moaning noises that caused Hardcastle set the magazine on his lap and gave his attention to his friend. "You trying to wake up, McCormick?" he leaned over to him and quietly asked.

Another groan ensued, followed by a slight movement of his head.

"You just take it easy. You've been through a lot. Don't move around too much. The doctor doesn't want you to injure anything else." Hardcastle said with concern.

Hardcastle watched as McCormick took in as deep a breath as he could muster and as he was exhaling he said the word, "Cold." At least that's what it sounded like to Milt. McCormick coughed a little, and the sound of his lungs filled the room with the crackling, congested and painful reverberation of the smoke still deep within him. The sound panicked him, but he realized that coughing might just be the one thing the kid really needed to do to clear his lungs up.

"What's that, kiddo? You're cold?" The judge asked him direct because he couldn't be sure if he'd heard him correctly. He noticed that he was covered with a blanket, but that his arms had been left uncovered. He reached over once again and touched his skin on his arms. That could be it. His skin did feel cold.

McCormick wasn't wasting time. Before the judge could remedy the situation, he repeated, "Cold," only this time it was a little louder and much clearer.

"All right, hang on, I got ya covered on this one. We don't need a nurse for this, do we, kiddo?" The judge quickly sprung to his feet and pulled the blanket down first, so that he could manipulate it to cover up McCormick's arms. It was a little tricky on the side with the IV, but he got it working up and around it, so that the kid was essentially covered up. "How's that feel now? Better?"

Mark made no further comments, but his head drifted off to the opposite side of where Milt stood and he noticed his breathing seemed a little easier.

_**Chapter 6**_

The long night gave way to the 'good morning' that Milt had mentioned to the nurse. Through the night, the nurses had been monitoring McCormick and all reports indicated that the patient was breathing easier and could possibly regain consciousness that day. Milt Hardcastle couldn't have been any happier with the news.

True to his word, Frank Harper stopped in on his way to the cop shop with a clean set of clothes for Milt. "Jeans, socks, shirt – oh, by the way, your next door neighbor came over to find out if everything was all right."

"Elliott Drinkwater?" Milt asked as he pulled his shirt over his head.

"Yeah. It seems he's figured out that if I go by the house and you two aren't there, then that means one of you must be in trouble of some kind."

"What'd you tell him?" Milt sat down and put his shoes back on, noticing that they were a bit smoky as well.

"I managed to get away without telling him much of anything. Have you had breakfast yet?"

Milt shook his head. "I'm not hungry. I don't think I could stomach any food right now anyway."

"Then how about some coffee? I think we could both use some."

Milt was about to refuse when the nurse came in to take Mark's vitals and switch out the IV. Coffee did sound good, and he needed the caffeine. "Yeah, let's go." Then, he told the nurse, "I'm just going to the cafeteria if you need me for anything," and walked out with Frank.

"They think he'll wake up sometime today," Milt said to Frank as they rode down in the elevator.

"That's great news, Milt. These kids bounce back a lot faster from this stuff than old guys like you and me do."

"Well, he's had his share and then some of these bounce backs. I gotta stop doing this to him."

Frank eyed him up. "I've told you before, Milt, you don't _do _thi_s_ to him. All the nut jobs out there do this. You guys help get the nut jobs off the streets. Besides McCormick knows the risks and whether you believe it or not, he does it because he wants to and because he knows if he didn't help you, you'd do it yourself and wind up in a hospital bed yourself."

"Aw, he does it because I gave him no real choice. Don't try to con me, Frank."

"No, don't con yourself. Maybe that was the deal at first, but it's not anymore. Isn't he done with parole? The fact is Milt, he could pack up and leave anytime and get a regular paying job that doesn't get him chased or shot at. He's doing this because he wants to. That kid in there cares about _you,_ and the work you guys do together, not about anything else. You know what he told me after he got shot? When you were feeling all guilty about the whole thing?" Milt shook his head. "He said that if him winding up in a hospital for a few days kept you out of the morgue, then it was worth it to him."

Milt didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. He followed Frank into the cafeteria. It was empty except for the hospital crew getting everything ready for the breakfast rush. They got their coffee, found a table and sat quietly for a few moments before the judge asked, "Did you find out anything?"

Frank sighed heavily. "I'm getting stonewalled. I finally contacted an old buddy of mine in the FBI. There's no absolute proof of anything, there's nothing official --"

"Frank, I've had a long night. Spill it."

"The Feds we've been working with are on the up-and-up, apparently. My contact said that there's a chance that it's some sort of a militant group working on their own inside the federal government smuggling guns out of the country. There have been other incidents over the last few years where arms have been confiscated in federal raids and disappearing out of evidence warehouses later. Whoever it is, they've got whatever authority they need to move around without anyone asking questions."

"And then they use Kerns to ship the items out?"

"Possibly. He might only be one of the methods they use to ship the guns but Kerns may be a partner. It definitely looks like he's part of their cover."

Milt swirled his coffee in the cup. "Any idea why the warehouse seemed like a setup?"

"It'd be speculation on my part, but given what I've heard, I think the Feds have someone inside Kerns' ranks. That wouldn't sit well with the militants or Kerns, so I think he gave specific information to this guy to see if he'd go to his superiors with it and prove he was the insider."

That made sense, Milt thought to himself. "So that's why the Feds didn't want to show up. That would have undermined their agent's cover. This way, it looks like we were in there going after one of the cases that walked out of my courtroom."

"And not working for the Feds," Frank added. "That's why they came to me in the first place asking about Kerns' local crimes. They knew I'd consider you and Mark for the job. They must have known that Kerns was one of your technicalities too. Anyway, the idea was that you two find something that I can use to get a warrant with, and that leads to me finding evidence that leads to federal charges."

"And the warehouse blew up."

"Sorry, Milt."

"It's not your fault," the judge told him.

"But we've got that one box with the hollow point bullets. That should be enough for me to get a warrant looking into Kerns' bank accounts and home and other businesses. Maybe we can get something from them."

"What about that one guy you arrested?" Milt asked as he yawned.

"He's not talking, and we don't know if Kerns and the other individual in the warehouse survived. Milt, on the outside chance that they did…"

"Yeah, I know. They know what Mark looks like. They could come after him." Milt took a sip of his now-cooling coffee.

"Looks like you could use some rest yourself Milt," Frank suggested.

"Me? I've gotten in a couple of catnaps. I wish his lungs would clear up, it scares me half to death every time he starts coughing or wheezing and can't seem to catch his breath. But I'm fine. Coffee's what I need right now."

Frank nodded his head. He knew the drill far too well. "Okay, look, you guys take care. I'll be in touch."

OOOOO

Kerns sat down carefully, every muscle feeling like each had been pulled to the breaking point. That idiot hired gun, he'd started shooting at Kerns when he had that intruder in his sights. A sizeable portion of his inventory he was using as bait was gone and there was no way to know what the intruder had gotten away with, but now Kerns knew who the federal agent was. At least _he himself_ had been standing near a door when that idiot had fired into a crate of gunpowder and got blasted clear. The two-timing agent hadn't made it out alive, too bad for a piece of scum like that. Who needed him anyway?

That was one problem solved.

Now for the intruder. Kerns had to find out if he survived, who he was and where he was.

OOOOO

Milt sipped at his coffee slowly. He hated to admit it, but that chair in the hospital room was uncomfortable and the ones in the cafeteria were at least well padded. It'd be okay if he enjoyed a 15-minute cup of coffee in a comfortable chair, right? As soon as the last drop was drank, he headed back up to Mark's room. As he got closer, a nurse was coming out of the room.

"Judge Hardcastle, I think your friend is beginning to come around. He's begun to make purposeful movements and sounds, although he is still unconscious and quite a bit groggy right now which could be due to the pain meds. I've paged the doctor. He said he'd be by during rounds this morning to check on him. I didn't want you to be alarmed when you saw him again."

"Thank you," he said to her as he entered back into the room and looked over to the bed. McCormick appeared distressed and troubled to Milt. The nurse hadn't gotten too far down the hall, so Milt called out to her. "Excuse me," he said. She stopped walking and turned back.

"Yes, Judge?" She came back toward him.

"He seems, I don't know, like he's in some kind of pain or something. Does he maybe need some medication soon?" They both entered the room to have a closer look.

"No, he had some about an hour ago, according to his chart." She had picked it up off the end of the bed and was reading it. Next she went over to re-check his vital signs.

"You do see that don't you?" He asked her, as he pointed to McCormick.

Mark's facial expressions, though still unconscious, were filled with pain. He was turning his head from side to side, squeezing his eyes and taking unusual sounding breaths.

"Yes, Judge, I do, but as I've said, it's purposeful movements. It may look and seem strange to you, but I assure you it's perfectly natural in those who have had concussions. He's simply reacting to reality. That's how we know he's coming out of the coma."

"Coma?" Milt asked. "No one said coma."

The nurse stopped and looked at the judge, surprise apparent on her face. "I'm sorry. I misspoke. He wasn't in an actual coma, at least, not in the classic sense. He was in a deeper state of unconsciousness than what you might associate with the word." She softly grabbed onto Hardcastle's arm and gave it a squeeze. "Honestly, Judge, this is all very good. We'd like for him to wake up as soon as possible, then we can assess and determine if there's been any other head injury that we need to be concerned about." She could see the worry and concern on Hardcastle's face. "If you'd prefer, we can give you a call when he does wake up," implying to him that he could wait somewhere else if he was uncomfortable.

He got the meaning right away. "Nah, I'll stay. I should be here. It's okay, I just don't like seeing him hurting like that, but if that's normal, then so be it. Besides, he'll expect me to be here when he wakes up. I'm sure he'll have a thousand questions, and there's no need for you folks to have to deal with him. He can be sort of ornery when he hasn't had his morning coffee, I can only imagine what he'll be like coming out of this." He paused and asked, "Is it okay to have the TV on now, do you think?"

"Sure," she gave him a smile, "Hearing noises might help rouse him a little faster. And you can talk to him too, that might spur him as well. When he does wake up, he'll probably be a little disoriented, so just talk him through the confusion and let us know."

The Judge returned the smile and as she exited, he went over and turned on the overhead TV. He adjusted the volume on the remote control as he took his chair. Usually, he'd have put the sound almost to mute, but since the objective was to help McCormick wake up, he put it up to a more normal level.

Hardcastle was busy changing the channels, all ten of them. There weren't too many choices and even less selection given that it was only about seven in the morning. Cartoons or reruns of _Leave It To Beaver_. He settled in on AM Los Angeles basically for any sort of news reports, specifically about the explosion at the warehouse. It was bound to be a top story, given the immense fire. And sometimes the reporters unknowingly had some sort of fact that had been overlooked by the police. Anything would be helpful. Milt gave his attention to the reporter as he began to report on the story.

"_This is Byron Simms, AMLA News reporting. Last night, a warehouse on the east side burned to the ground after a massive explosion." _

The scene moved from the reporter to the burned remains behind him. The steel framework of the building was charred and in pieces, some of the ribs still standing but at a precarious angle. What was left didn't look like it had been a building at all.

"_Officials believe that there may have been fuel used by the forklifts housed in the warehouse that contributed to the spread of the fire. Although the cause of the fire itself is still unknown, there is some speculation that a gas leak may be involved. The actual source of the explosion is still under investigation."_

There was enough of a pause in the report for Milt to sarcastically chuckle. "It wasn't fuel or a gas leak, Byron," he interjected.

"_The owners of the warehouse, U.S. Exporters, a United States Customs contractor, had recently leased the space to a local shipping company, T&K Shipping."_

United States Customs? Milt sighed. This just kept getting better and better. Kerns really was in bed with some big bads. Of course, this made the entire disaster make more sense, sort of. US Customs contractors could be almost above the reach of the law. The contractors owned the warehouses, they leased them to Kerns, simple way to do business. They owned the real estate, Kerns supplied the labor and know-how. Maybe they just caught a break? The contractors could come and go… they had the authority… no one would ever ask questions…

"That's good news, kiddo," he sighed quickly glancing at McCormick. T&K Shipping. TK had to be the initials for Timothy Kerns. Depending on what was on the paperwork, Frank might have a good chance of finding out a great deal. Paperwork. Milt could almost groan at the irony. After all, Kerns walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom because his name was misspelled. Hopefully, they won't have that problem on any of the lease documents.

"_As you can see, the warehouse itself has been completely obliterated. Moments ago, officials found the skeletal remains of an as-yet unidentified individual who was inside the warehouse at the time. Police sources also tell us that one injury was reported, but there has been no word by officials as to who the person is or where he is. The police are not commenting as to whether they believe foul play was involved. This is Byron Simms for AMLA News."_

One injured, which means if Kerns or anyone involved with Kerns, was watching, they'd know that Mark was still alive. That made him even more of a target.

OOOOO

One injured. Kerns shut off the television and sat back more comfortably in his uncomfortable chair. He was still stiff and sore from the blast, right now, everything was uncomfortable and at least he wasn't in a hospital. The intruder was alive. Who the hell was that guy? It shouldn't be hard for his associates to find out who he was and where. Knowledge of his whereabouts would have to be known to some in law enforcement. Or perhaps the insurance companies? He had some contacts there, and the injured man must have needed medical attention…

It wouldn't take long. He picked up the phone and made a call. "Toby, this is Kerns. I need you to find someone for me… Nah, nothing like that at all… nope, just find someone… I promise, this time I'll have someone else do the dirty work… Whatta ya mean you've heard that before? Toby, come on….all right, how much do you want?... Deal… This is what I got. He's about six feet tall, curly brown hair, thin build, probably in a hospital on the east side somewhere. He's probably got some burns from an explosion… I'm serious, Toby, just find out his name, where he is and call me back… Yeah, yeah, okay, drop by for the envelope and give it to me then."

_**Chapter 7**_

McCormick appeared to settle down a bit as Milt was watching the news, but after about fifteen minutes went by he began to toss and turn a bit more than he had been before and he started clutching at his side where his ribs had been bruised and cracked.

"Easy going there, kiddo," Milt tried to pull his hand away and keep it at his side. He didn't want McCormick to injure himself any more. It wasn't long before he got his one hand settled down that McCormick took his other hand and lifted it up to his face and head, nearly pulling off one of the bandages that covered a burn. "Hey, come on now, McCormick, you don't want to be hurting yourself. That bandage is there for a reason. Try to relax." Again, he took his hand and tried to calm him down.

This wasn't going to be easy. McCormick, as always, had a mind of his own and he was doing a good job of driving the judge nuts with his so-called 'purposeful movements.'

As his head was lolling slowly back and forth, his face began to take on the appearance of waking up, his eyelids began fluttering, his lips began to part, and he started breathing a little more loudly, more quickly.

Hardcastle watched it all and joked out loud, "Boy, oh boy, McCormick, you're sure making a major production out of this. Why don't you wake up already?"

This time both of his arms and hands rose up to his head. There was no doubt he probably had a headache of major proportions thanks to the concussion and the after effects of the gigantic explosion. He let out a moan as he rubbed his head near his temples and along his cheek bones and then, ever so slowly he pushed open his eyelids open and blinked a few extra times trying to clear out the cobwebs. Hardcastle got a quick peek at his eyes and they appeared glassy and unfocused.

The judge watched him closely as he started his return to consciousness. "You trying to wake up there, McCormick? Come on kiddo, you can do it," Hardcastle said. "It's about damn time." The judge pressed the nurse's call button as he spoke.

The Judge's 'morning greeting' was answered by another murmuring groan, not entirely unlike the kind he usually got in the morning by McCormick.

Mark closed his eyes tightly and pushed his own head rather forcefully to the right side, then repeated the same motion to the left. The look on his face belied the pain he was in.

"Must have a helluva headache, huh, kiddo?" The judge remarked. "I sure can understand that after seeing that explosion."

All he got was another muttering groan.

The nurse's voice came over the speaker. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, McCormick's waking up, and I think he's hurting."

"I'll be right there," she answered.

Mark settled down, almost as if he were trying to drop off again. Hardcastle carefully shook Mark's arm. "The nurse is coming, so why don't 'cha try staying awake here, huh? They said you might feel a little disoriented, but you're gonna be okay. You're in the hospital kiddo, getting all the care you need."

McCormick's right hand went back up to his head and he opened his tired eyes up once and for all as he put the judge in his sights. He managed to pry one open more than the other and the Judge waited for him to open them both the same. It took a few more seconds, as the kid was combating through some noticeable sort of head pain.

Hardcastle stood up from the chair to have a better look at him. "Hey, there ya are! Welcome back kiddo. How do you feel?"

McCormick blinked while focusing on the judge's face and mumbled, "Aw, leave me alone, Hardcastle." He tried to roll on his side, but the pain from his ribs prevented him from getting to far. He let out a whimper of pain and proceeded to stay still for the immediate moment. "Let me sleep. My head's all messed up, ribs hurt, ahhh, ears hurt, something different, sound…" he sort of mumbled audibly. He closed his eyes in an effort to vent the pain away.

Nothing doing from the judge's perspective, the doctors wanted him awake and he was going to facilitate the process. Hardcastle latched onto his shoulder and had him turn back to his back, "You got one bad walloping, McCormick, that's for sure. You remember any of it?"

"What?" Mark asked, squinting his eyes to see the Judge while attempting to focus and clear his pounding head. "What'd you say?"

Keeping his voice lower than normal, the judge explained, "You were in an explosion. You might not remember. I guess it's better maybe that you don't. Probably got some sort of rip-roaring headache going huh?"

"Judge, no games. Everything hurts. My ears…" McCormick said, his voice raw and sore. Mark squeezed his eyes closed tight again and rolled his neck and shoulders, then he took both hands and rubbed the side of his head, near his ears. He opened his eyes back up and waited for Milt to speak.

Games? "I'm not playing any games. What are _you_ talking about? You're in the hospital, we brought you in late yesterday. You shouldn't move around so much. You're only going to make yourself feel worse. Besides the concussion, you busted up some ribs, too. I imagine you'll be sore for awhile."

Mark lay there for a moment, looking at the judge as if he'd grown another head. He started to cough out more of the crud from his lungs, clutching at his rib cage to quell the pain.

"Mark? What is it?" The kid's face was indescribable. There was more than just pain being reflected there. It began to make Milt very nervous and very worried.

"Judge?" McCormick's face was awash in an all-out panic.

"What is it, kiddo?" The judge didn't like that look on Mark's face. He quickly pushed the call button again.

"Talk," Mark almost ordered him.

"Talk? What do you mean? What about?" What was going on?

Mark looked around the room, utter fear and apprehension showing in his eyes. McCormick glanced up at the TV, and picked his head up from the pillow, straining. The Judge had set the remote control on the bed right by McCormick's hand, and now Mark saw it nearby and he grabbed it. Looking down at it, he punched at the volume button until it became so loud that the Judge had to grab it away from him to turn the sound back down so as not to disturb anyone else. "McCormick, stop that! What's going on? What's the matter with you?" The Judge held onto the remote and watched him closely. "Whatta ya trying to do, wake the dead?"

McCormick's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Sheer terror was on his face. He tried to prop himself up, groaning and wheezing with ever slight movement as his body was wracked with agonizing pain. His breathing was more labored than it had been.

The judge gently pushed Mark's shoulder back down to the bed. "Lay down, will ya? You're not supposed to moving around just yet." Now, he was getting really scared. What was going on with you? "Mark? What the hell is it? What's wrong? Tell me, will ya?" The judge's face softened, but inside he remained full of worry. Mark didn't just get scared for nothing.

McCormick saw Hardcastle's concern and it only intensified his own, "Judge, I… I uh, I can't hear you. Your mouth is moving but… I can't hear anything." He grabbed at his head again, right on top of his ears, pulling and tugging at them to no avail, before collapsing back onto the bed in pain and despair. "_I can't hear!_" he said in a scared whisper.

The judge stood by, in shock himself. There was no sense in _saying_ anything to attempt to comfort him, it wouldn't do any good. He mumbled, "Oh, God."

McCormick had turned ever so slightly onto his other side, away from the glare of Hardcastle and where his ribs didn't hurt him so badly. He pressed his head into the pillow and covered up his other ear with his hand while he pressed his eyes closed. What had Hardcastle been saying to him? Was he telling him that he was deaf? He couldn't make any sense of anything and the pain his head was currently swimming in, just made it all the worse. His head _hurt!_ His ears _hurt!_ His ears didn't hear, not a sound. His ribs…maybe he'd just sleep and wake up and this would all be a dream. He sort of rocked himself in an effort to find some comfort from this nightmare. "It's got to be a nightmare," he whispered, the anguish growing in his voice with every syllable he spoke. "It's just a bad dream."

He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, beckoning him to roll over. Mark refused. When he decided to speak, his voice was filled with sorrow. "Judge, go away. Just… leave me alone for now, please," he said with an even and quiet tone in his voice. Milt left his hand there for an extra moment or two and gave the kid's shoulder a squeeze and then he removed his hand.

In the meantime, a nurse pushed open the squeaky door. McCormick didn't move as he hadn't heard her enter, but Milt immediately noticed her. "Is there a problem, Judge?" She noticed Mark was curling himself up as much as he could on the bed.

"Yeah, yeah, there is," he nodded, "Please get the doctor. He, uh, he said he can't hear anything, and he's in pain."

The nurse nodded her head. "I'll have him paged," she said as she left.

_**Chapter 8**_

While he waited for the doctor, Hardcastle decided he wasn't giving up that easily and he certainly wasn't going away. He pulled open the drawer of the side table and found a pad of paper and a pen. He took it out quickly and jotted down some words. Then he walked around to the other side of the bed.

He could tell by looking at Mark that he wasn't trying to sleep, not by the way he had his eyes pinched tightly closed. He was hurting bad. He looked every bit like a five-year-old who was afraid of monsters hiding in the dark and maybe that's just how he felt right now. He sure was entitled to that. This was one hell of a nasty monster he'd woken up with and that potentially faced the kid. The judge slowly took his right hand and eased it down in the midst of McCormick's curly hair, getting all the way down to his skull, as he cupped it in his hand and held it that way, gently grasping it, letting the kid know he wanted his attention. "Open up, kiddo," he said, still not realizing it was futile to talk at the moment. He gave the curly head another caring squeeze and left it there as he waited for McCormick to open his eyes and look at him.

McCormick didn't need ears or eyes to know that it was Hardcastle, and he knew the judge wasn't going to just 'go away.' He knew he had to deal with the situation at hand. He relaxed his facial features, took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see Hardcastle holding up the tablet that he was going to use to write on, so they could somehow communicate for the time being. Before that got started, he still needed to talk, to say something, to try to hear, maybe it was just his head. He could feel the bandages. "Judge, I can't hear. What happened? I can't remember anything." Fear and sadness filled his tired voice and tears started welling up in his eyes. "And don't go, please. I didn't know what I was saying, I didn't mean that, it's just…" he finally said. "I can't _hear_ what I'm saying. Am I talking? There's no sound at all."

The judge nodded as he gave Mark's curly head one more concerned grasp before pulling it back to write. Hardcastle said while he wrote, "I'm not going anywhere," before he again realized that McCormick couldn't hear it. This was going to be very frustrating.

"NOT LEAVING," he scribbled on the paper. "ACCIDENT. YOU'RE IN HOSPITAL."

Mark attempted to compose himself as he read the words. "What? When? NO! My car? Was I in a crash?" He shouted, his fear turning into anger and rage. "Is this permanent? You can hear me right?"

"YEAH, I HEAR YOU. CALM DOWN," He read the words and repeated what he was reading, "DOCTOR'S COMING, NO NEED TO MARRY.

"What?" Mark didn't understand his writing. "Marry what? Judge?" McCormick was beyond confused.

Milt pulled back the tablet and looked at what he'd written. He crossed out the original 'worry' and carefully wrote it out again, this time a little more legibly.

"WORRY," Mark answered, "Yes, I'm worried. I told you, I can't hear. What happened to me?"

Hardcastle scribbled again and held it up for him.

McCormick read it out loud again. "I SAID DON'T WORRY." He rolled painfully onto his back. "Not worrying is going to be difficult, since I've been used to hearing my whole life. What are the doctors saying? Can you hear me talking? Is my voice working?"

The judge nodded 'yes' again and went back to writing.

"NO NEED TO YELL. YOU HAVE A CONCUSION, PROBABLY JUST TEMPORARY." Mark read the words and replied, "You spelled concussion wrong, it has two S's in it."

Hardcastle let his arms fall to his sides. Leave it to McCormick to be a spelling critic in a time of crisis.

"What happened? I don't remember." McCormick asked. He couldn't consciously keep his hands away from his ears, but all the pulling and prodding at them wasn't helping.

Milt tore off the paper and wrote down. "EXPLOSION IN THE WAREHOUSE. YOU WERE THROWN CLEAR."

Mark shut his eyes, searching for the memory. "What were we doing in a warehouse?"

Milt scribbled. "DOING WHAT WE ALWAYS DO. CHASING BAD GUYS."

"Last thing I remember was going to the garage to work on the Coyote," Mark shrugged and he went back to pulling and tugging at his ears. "Ears hurt worse than my head," he muttered. "Can you say something again?" Mark focused on Hardcastle whose lips were moving as he spoke something, but Mark couldn't make out any of it. Silence was all around him and closing in on him too fast for his liking. "Damn," he shouted. "Aw, damn it, I can see your lips moving, but there's no sound." He rolled back to his side and closed his eyes. "Nothing," he said bitterly.

The doctor entered the room via a squeaky hospital door, followed by another doctor and the nurse. McCormick didn't move a muscle.

The nurse made the introductions, "Judge, you know Dr. Guthrie, and this is Dr. Bishop. I told them that you said that Mark isn't able to hear."

"He's in pain and pretty upset right now," the Judge said. "Scared, too."

"We understand," Guthrie said. "Let us examine him and see what we can determine. We might have to run a few tests. Right now there's no need to jump to any conclusions."

"I've tried to tell him that, but, well, waking up with a concussion is bad enough, this…" the Judge said. He lifted up the pad of paper to explain what he'd been doing. "I'm writing things down. Let me introduce you."

He wrote down their names on the paper and reached down and gently touched McCormick's neck and shoulder.

"Now what?" Mark said, opening his eyes. He read the paper. "DR. GUTHRIE AND DR. BISHOP MANT TO DETERMINE YOU, VUN SOME IESIS. I'LL BE OUTSIDE WAITING.' "Judge that doesn't make any sense, can you slow down and write better?" He rolled over to see the two doctors and the nurse and gave them an unenthused wave of his hand.

Hardcastle tried not to show his frustration as he rewrote the words, WANT, EXAMINE, RUN and TESTS. He added, "BE NICE." He handed the tablet to Dr. Guthrie.

"Yeah, and practice your penmanship while you're out there," McCormick called out after him.

Doctors Guthrie and Bishop chuckled when they heard the cutting remark.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 9**_

Deaf.

This wasn't the first time Milt had been near a situation like that. One of his son's friends had been born deaf. Milt had learned a few hand movements all those years ago, but he didn't remember them. He hadn't spent much time with the little boy since he was working as a police officer during the day and going to law school at night, but Nancy had told him of all the things they had taken for granted that the little boy had to take extra precautions for. For instance, crossing the street, you had to look left-right-left before crossing, but you also listened to hear if a car was coming. Tommy's friend had to always pay a little more attention than the others. _What if?_ Milt was only starting to see the future for McCormick.

He banished that thought from his head. He was putting too many carts before too many horses, and no one knew anything yet. He needed to wait until they knew something.

Milt had strolled down to the other end of the hall when the doctors came out of the room in consultation with each other. He paused as he watched their seriousness in their body language. He swallowed hard and headed back to hear the latest on McCormick's condition.

"So what do you fellas think?" he asked.

"We're going to take him down for a CAT scan, and we're discussing calling in our colleague from Sacred Heart Hospital. He's an expert in audiology, particularly in noise induced deafness. Gunfire and explosions are definitely something he's had some experience with before. He's worked at the State VA hospital for many years with many of these types of patients," Dr. Bishop explained.

"Yeah, sure, whatever he needs," the Judge nodded his full agreement. He was afraid to ask the next question. Dr. Guthrie saw his apprehension and addressed it first.

"We think Mark may be suffering from Conductive Deafness due, of course, to the explosion. We want to make sure there's no skull fracture that we may have missed on the x-rays we took yesterday. That's why we want to do a scan on him."

"Is the loss of hearing permanent with this Conductive…?" Hardcastle was at a loss for words.

"We won't lie to you, Judge. It can be, but sometimes it clears up and there's also an operation that's possible if the ossicular bones are dislocated. But we can talk about that after the scan and after we have the audiologist come and see him. It could be that there's simply some swelling going on in there and his hearing may return in a few days. You never really know with concussions of this nature. Right now we need a closer look. We're going to set up the CAT scan in about an hour. Try to reassure him. He's getting a little worked up over things we don't know yet."

Milt pursed his lips, "I'll do my best."

OOOOO

The room wasn't exactly quiet when he walked back in. McCormick had gotten hold of the TV remote again and was scrolling the volume up and down, watching the green lines increase and decrease on the screen, still unable to hear any sound coming from the television. He didn't move a muscle when Milt pushed the squeaky door open either. Hardcastle physically walked over and plucked the remote out of his hand. "I don't think that's gonna make your hearing return." He said, again, speaking and then realizing it was no good.

"Quit doing that to me, Hardcase," Mark reminded him. "It's not funny."

Hardcastle set the remote out of his reach and looked around the room for the tablet and pen. He spotted them on the floor on the opposite side of the room where apparently McCormick had tossed them in frustration. He casually walked over and picked them up and stepped back to the bed.

He started writing on the tablet as he returned to Mark's bedside. "YOU NEED TO RELAX, SPORT. THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY."

"That's not what I heard them say," he shook his head with disgust, and added, "That's not what they wrote." He opened up his hand and handed the judge a crumpled piece of paper. Hardcastle opened it up and read what one of the doctors had written out loud. "WE'RE NOT SURE RIGHT NOW." "See, to me that means, sorry, McCormick, but you're deaf because we don't know how to fix you, have a nice life." He dropped the paper on the table and forced himself to now deal with the situation at hand. The kid was getting way ahead of himself. "Yeah, see, Judge? Quit trying to sugarcoat it for me. Even though I can't hear you say it, I can see it all over your face. You don't know, and they don't know. And that leaves me deaf and no one knows if it's permanent or not. It doesn't get any plainer than that."

"THEY"RE RAKING YOU FOR A REST."

Mark read the note, or at least he tried to. "Huh?"

"TAKING -- TEST?" Hardcastle rewrote.

"Oh, yeah, this is going to be a real blast. Not that there wasn't a real one already," he said, alluding to the explosion he couldn't recall, "But you can't even write, Hardcastle. How is this ever gonna work?"

"SO THEN WE'LL LEARN TO SIGN IF WE HAVE TO."

"You said this was temporary, now we're going to learn another language? Make up your mind will ya," McCormick's biting commentary certainly hadn't been injured.

Hardcastle scribbled down something else, this time taking the time to get the words right. He handed the piece of paper to Mark.

ONE DAY AT A TIME. LET THE DOCTORS DO THEIR WORK. I'LL WORK ON MY PENMANSHIP.

Mark almost smiled, but his body and mind were racked with too much pain at the moment.

Milt took the seat beside McCormick and began to write down a rather long note. He took his time so that it would be neat and legible and most of all hopeful. By the time he finished it, he glanced over to McCormick had tired out from the whole situation and had given himself over to sleep. The Judge folded up the note and placed it along side of his hand where he'd be sure to find it.

A half hour later, the orderlies came to take Mark out to have the CAT scan.

OOOOOOO

_Look, kiddo, I don't know exactly what you're going through right now, but I know you must have all sorts of scared thoughts running around inside your head. I'm not even going to try to tell you not to worry, but what I do want to tell you is to be patient. No one has any answers yet. We didn't know until you woke up that your ears were giving you any problems. Let's wait for the doctors to do their tests. I just want you to know that you're not alone in any of this. They said it may clear up on its own. It might be something as simple as swelling. If it doesn't, then I'll do whatever I can to help you, be it doctors, specialists, operations, penmanship classes, whatever. We'll get through it together, and I'll be right here beside you all the way. You can count on that. It's a bet that will pay off._

_Milt_

Mark let the words soak in as reread the note about a half dozen times as they wheeled him from the CAT scan back to his room. Reassurance, ha! It sounded a lot like a write off, didn't it? The Judge writing out sappy notes just didn't cut it, did it? Enough! Mark mentally kicked himself for having those kinds of thoughts. Here was a retired Judge who finagled him out of jail and set him up in house of his own. This was the same guy who didn't leave his side when he got shot. This was the same guy who was waiting right there in the hospital with him. He knew he could count on the Judge. He'd always been able to count on him before. Being a complete burden to him though, that might be even more than the Judge would want to handle.

His mind danced back and forth with so many thoughts, some morbid, some not-so-hopeless, some more positive.

Okay, it was beyond nice to have the reassurance from the judge and for a brief moment, he actually let himself relax. Seemingly trapped in the utter silence he found himself in, it was so strange to see people talking and laughing as they carted him down the hall, and he could only wonder what they were discussing and what all the giggles were about. The total absence of noise, it was something he'd never considered before. He wondered if the gurney he was on had a squeaky wheel or if the elevator had one of those high-pitched squawks as he rode back down to the 3rd floor. It was the first time he thought that he might be glad he couldn't hear it since his head still hurt from the concussion. Noise and concussion together were pretty painful. While waiting for the elevator to come a little girl of about seven came up along side his gurney and said hello to him and asked how he was. He was surprised that he could actually read her lips and make out the words. He mustered up a smile for her and said he was just fine. Happy and satisfied with the answer she'd gotten from him, she actually lovingly patted his cheek and trotted off down the hall.

God, McCormick, what's in store for you now? He could only wonder.

_**Chapter 10**_

No noise.

Complete silence.

Milt couldn't even imagine what the sound of silence sounded like. All those times he'd yelled at McCormick for everything dumb thing imaginable like slamming the doors or clomping through the house, but he could _hear_ all that. What if he suddenly couldn't?

What if Mark never heard Milt yell at him? What if he never heard anything ever again?

Worse still, what if the explosion had taken Mark away permanently and Milt never heard those sounds _ever_ again?

Milt closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. This job of theirs, going after the bad guys, it had nearly cost Mark his life before. Now, it may have cost him his hearing.

Getting bad guys wasn't worth any of this. It was far too high a price to pay.

For the second time in under a year, Milt Hardcastle gave serious thought to stopping what they were doing. No more going after bad guys, no more putting the kid through who-knows-what…Too many more of these could be permanent.

No, the price was too high.

The ringing telephone interrupted his thoughts. Before he spoke, he composed himself. He picked up the handset on the second ring. "Hello?"

"_Milt, it's Frank. How's Mark?"_

"He's awake. He's got a headache and…"

"_And? And what Milt?"_

"He can't hear, Frank, he's got some sort of deafness," Saying it out loud wasn't going to make anything better or worse. Hardcastle closed his eyes and waited.

There was momentary silence on the other end, then, "_He can't hear_?"

Milt took a deep breath. "No. The doctor said it was something called Conductive Deafness. It might clear up on its own, but if it doesn't…. Anyway, they've taken Mark down for some tests."

"_Damn, Milt, I don't know what to say…."_

"Me either," And so the Judge quickly changed the subject. "Did you see the story on the news?"

"_Yeah. I'm looking into it. This is really big. A warehouse owned by a contractor for the Customs department and leased to Kerns? I think this is way out of your usual league, Milt."_

"No argument. At least now we know who the group is behind all of this. Anyway, we're out of it, but Kerns may come after Mark."

"_I've already got some guys at the hospital as long as you two are there, and there are a few making more drive-by patrols at the estate. There's a problem, though."_

"Don't tell me. Let me guess. The entire operation wasn't official, we weren't official, so we can't expect any 'official' help from the police," Milt concluded.

"_The officers are the ones who were working on this with us. They know the score and the drill. They're doing this on their own time, but unless there's an actual threat made against Mark…"_

"We can't expect someone to baby-sit us 24/7, I get it. Let's hope this is all tied up pretty soon."

"_I'll tell you what I find out, Milt. Give Mark my best."_

"I will. See ya."

Hardcastle put the handset back in its cradle and listened to the relative quiet of the hospital room. Relative. It wasn't quiet. The volume on the TV was turned down low, the sounds of someone calling over the intercom, the general hubbub of people walking up and down the corridor… no, it wasn't quiet, he could still _hear_ all of it, every rotten sound.

It just wasn't all that noisy.

OOOOO

The tests had really wiped Mark out. Milt saw the exhaustion in his tired face and body. The kid didn't bother to say anything, he was so fatigued. He fell asleep within minutes after they brought him back to the room. Hardcastle watched as the nurses got Mark settled and gave him a mild dose of pain killer in his IV. He was out like a light right shortly after.

"How long will he need that?" Milt asked the nurse, pointing toward the IV.

"It's up to him, mostly. We'll get him a liquid lunch and see if he can handle it. If he can, we'll try something a little more solid tomorrow. I think the doctor may want to keep him on the IV for a couple of days since it's easier to give him his pain meds and antibiotics with it."

The nurse double checked some numbers on the readout. "He seems to be running a slight fever."

"How bad is that?" the judge asked her.

"It's only 99.4 degrees. It could be a side effect of the meds or moving around as much as he has today. I'll tell the doctor about it."

Milt waited a moment then asked, "Did the doctor find out anything from all the tests yet?"

"I don't know, Mr. Hardcastle. The doctor will have to talk to you himself."

After the nurse left, Milt sat down and picked up another magazine. He glanced at his watch. It was only a little after 10:00 in the morning? He felt like it should be much later.

_**Chapter 11**_

For Mark, another day passed, only it seemed to be blurred and out of focus. More of the same tests as the previous day, followed by what seemed to be the endless Hardcastle notes and the picking and prodding of the nurses and their nearly constant act of injecting him every hour on the hour with some sort of potion or drawing blood from him for some sort of count. Every time they moved about him or whenever their lips moved, it made him frustrated. He strained to hear them, wanting to will himself to do so. He grew tired and discouraged from the hearing tests that he couldn't hear. First they'd stick something in his ears, then on his head, then they'd remove everything and the result was always the same. Nothing. How many ways did he have to tell them?

By late morning, the mental blurriness had merged into disconnection, nausea and exhaustion. Every part of him was aching or throbbing or burning or stinging. Wasn't all the stuff they insisted on doing to him supposed to make him feel better? He tried to tell them it wasn't working.

He remembered them writing down what they were doing, but his head was still swimming from the combination of the concussion and the cocktail of drugs. Antibiotics for infection, pain meds, hydration solution, tranquilizers -- a little bit of everything was flowing in his right arm. The words they had written down to explain things to him seemed out of focus and nonsensical. Every time he was ready to sleep, someone came to 'check' on him. He wanted his head to be clear, so he could think and remember, but no one seemed to be listening to him. They said they could hear him, didn't they? Not even his best friend, the Judge, was listening. Milt always listened to him when he was in the hospital. At least, he always had. Funny wasn't it? He was the one who was deaf and yet they couldn't seem to hear him.

He asked for water, didn't he? He thought he did. He couldn't think of a reason why he couldn't have some water. Some cool water would sooth his dry throat. He felt like it had been so long since he had a drink of water.

He swept his head from side to side, but no one was around. Weren't they all just in there? The doctor and the two nurses, even Hardcastle? Where had they all gone?

OOOOO

For Milt, only a few hours had passed, only it seemed to be hectic, chaotic and worrisome. Mark's fever had drifted around 100 for a while, then it skyrocketed to 103. Milt had watched the numbers climb one after the other in minutes. He'd called for the nurse who was already rushing into the room with the doctor.

Dr. Guthrie asked them all to step out of the room. Milt guessed that it was habit rather than necessity. How could Mark have heard them anyway? "He's got a pretty severe infection right now. I increased the antibiotic dosage and, with your permission, Judge Hardcastle, I'd like to increase his pain med's. I think it would be best if he would sleep through most of this. If he's awake and fighting, the antibiotics won't have the same chance to work. We need to limit his movements right now and the best way we can control it is through the pain meds."

"If you think that's the best thing for him, then yeah, let's do it," Milt replied, "What's causing the infection?"

"It could be the burns or the smoke, maybe coupled with a delayed reaction to everything that's happened to him. The burns are what concern me the most, although his lungs aren't clearing up as well as we had hoped either. I'm also going to have the nurse put him back on the O2 just until we get his fever to break. He's not really in any sort of respiratory distress, but even though he's not coughing much, his lungs aren't clear and he seems to putting a lot of effort into gaining a simple breath," Guthrie explained.

"This came on really fast," Hardcastle remarked. "And he's been like this for hours, unsettled, it's troubling..."

"Infections of this nature often do. Don't worry, it's not unusual, I've seen it before. As I've said, we've got a plan so we'll go ahead and get started. Let's get this young man back on the road to recovery."

OOOOO

Back into the room came the foursome. Dr. Guthrie noted something on his chart while the nurses were busily preparing more injections.

"Judge," McCormick's voice cracked, "Can," he took a breath as some muck caught in his throat, changing the sound of his voice, "Can I get water?" he managed to expel, just before he started coughing. Milt looked over to the doctor for an answer.

"By all means," Guthrie smiled, and nodded toward the pitcher and glass. "Get him to drink as much as possible."

Milt patted his arm, "Coming right up, kiddo." He poured a half a glass and picked up Mark's head off the pillow so that he could drink it. "How's that, better?"

McCormick didn't nod or shake his head like he would have otherwise. Milt had to remember, he couldn't hear anything being asked of him. The judge eased him back down to the bed.

One of the nurses came over, started to put the nasal cannula for the O2 on him and he tried to bat it away.

"Don't want that, hurts my nose," he said turning his head away from it.

Milt tried to intervene and get McCormick to settle down, but the fever was causing him a lot of distress. "Sorry about that," The Judge said to the nurse. "He's not normally like this."

He watched McCormick's breathing. His breaths were shallow, rapid and loud. It scared him to see the kid working so hard just to get a breath.

Guthrie noticed it and said to her, "Let's not upset him. He'll be asleep in minutes. Wait until then and put it on him." She nodded her understanding and went about her next task. "I'll be completing rounds if you need me."

Nothing seemed to be helping Mark at all, only aggravating him. He couldn't seem to regulate his body temperature. One minute he was so hot, he thought he would burn up and the next minute he shivered from the cold that chilled him to his core. He knew he was drifting in and out but he thought they were doing this to him on purpose. What was the most frustrating thing was waking up to see people, including Hardcastle, hovering around him, talking and not hearing any sound in his ears. It was a maddening delirium for him. He woke up one time, startled by some shriek of a nightmare and reached out and grasped and clawed at the Judge's arm something fierce. The judge held on to Mark's arm -- was he pushing him away? "JUDGE," he cried out. He tried to raise his head up off the pillow, but he didn't seem to have the right control over his neck muscles. Hardcastle's lips were moving, but try as he might, he couldn't make out the words. He tried to sit up in the bed, but the Judge's strength overwhelmed him and pushed him back to the prone position. A couple of nurses stepped in, one went to checking his pulse and his temperature. He kept spitting out the thermometer, until she finally held it place against his will. The other nurse came at him from the other side carrying another syringe of something and she aimed it right into his IV.

"No, not anymore, please," he begged, his forehead wet with sweat. What were they doing to him? He looked at her and pleaded and then over to the other side where the Judge and the other nurse were standing. He tried to push her away, just as the Judge had done to him. It was no use, he had no strength and he felt her powerfully take his right arm in hers to steady it to give him the medication. The other nurse took a cool cloth and bathed his face with it. "Can't take it, don't want it…" he said to all of them. "Please, Judge, make them stop, no more, please."

His breathing was rapid and shallow, interspersed with congested coughs as he fought with all his might against everything they were doing to him He mustered up enough of his own strength to shove the nurse off of his arm and reached out both hands toward Hardcastle. "Judge, don't let 'em, please," he begged. In the fog he was in, his aim was way off base, but the Judge, reached down for him and took hold of his left hand, while the nurse had grabbed his right arm again, this time even more snuggly and gave him the injection. "Why's everyone doing this to me?"

"Relax, kiddo, it's just a fever, you're okay," Milt said, still not fully realizing his spoken words had no impact on McCormick. This was going to take a while to get used to. Instead, he gripped Mark's hand harder. The old human touch was going to have to be enough to let the kid know not to worry.

"Judge, no…" he cried out.

"It's just the fever talking, Judge. The med's are in," the nurse said to him. "His temperature is up to 104. The doctor ordered another dose of tranquilizer to let him rest a little more comfortably. It should take effect rather quickly."

"Judge… take me home, please… make 'em stop… don't want this, no more," his voice wavered.

Hardcastle finally felt the tiny bit of strength McCormick had in his hand slacken inside his own.

McCormick felt himself slipping into oblivion, "No, no, no," Mark cried out as the medication quickly went to work. His hand completely slid out of the Judge's grasp and Hardcastle set it down on the bed at his side. "No more," he cried out again, directing it right at Milt. Tears slid down out of his eyes as his breathing changed to a deeper, slower even rhythm. His lips parted as he slowly and dopily let his eyelids close down. One more time he whispered, "No…."

"Does he have a phobia about hospitals?" the nurse asked.

"No. Drugs," the Judge told her. "I don't know why. He doesn't even really like taking aspirin unless he's really hurting."

"Whatever the reason is, it must be pretty big given how much he's fighting us on this."

"It's gotta be the fever. He might argue the point if he was feeling okay, but he'd take the medicine."

The nurse fastened the O2 nasal cannula on Mark and took another look at his readings. He was still fairly unsettled as he lay in the hospital bed, flailing about. His breathing changed… heart rate changed… his temperature spike to 105. "I'm getting a cooling blanket," the nurse rushed out while Milt went into the bathroom and wet another washcloth with cold water. He hurried back and wiped Mark's perspiring face as the nurse came back in. She placed the blanket hurriedly on Mark and switched it on. Then she injected another med into the I.V.

"This should bring his temperature down fast."

"Is this normal?"

"Temperatures can spike, Judge. If it stays like this, we'll call the doctor back."

Milt waited and watched the temperature readout on the monitor. It seemed to be stuck on 105. He couldn't help but focus on McCormick's face. Besides the overly heated, sweat-laden skin, his eyes were rolling up and down, beneath his eyelids and every painful breath he took in and exhaled was sending an aching chill into Milt. He was helpless to do anything for his friend, except to be with him, at his side, until the bout passed.

105.

105.

104.

"It's going down?" His eyes shifted over to the temperature monitor.

The nurse watched as well. "It seems to be," she answered.

They watched the numbers click off to 103 where it stayed. "I'll call the doctor and let him know it spiked. I'll check back in a little while. Call if there's any change before a nurse comes back in to check his vitals."

Hardcastle sighed heavily as he held the washcloth on Mark's forehead. For hours during the long afternoon, he'd watch Mark deliriously beg him to make them stop whatever they were doing. Mark never begged. The fever had such a grip on him and he couldn't hear anything anyone said. He didn't realize what the notes said. As soon as Mark seemed to truly slip into a deep sleep, Milt took a nearby seat and waited. The fever had to break soon.

OOOOO

A few hours after that, the fever had indeed broken and it was down to a more reasonable number, 100. Dr. Guthrie was satisfied with his quick turnaround and ordered the O2 to be removed. McCormick slowly woke up not remembering the better part of the day at all.

Hardcastle had been there the whole time, listening to the broken snatches of sentences Mark was muttering. He couldn't make a lot of sense out of most of it, but the idea that someone was hurting him seemed to be what was echoing through Mark's deliriums, that in and of itself tore at the core of Milt. If there was anything in his power to do what he wanted, it would be to take the kid's pain away, so the thought of him hurting and not being able to do anything left him beyond frustrated. Some sentences sounded like he was asking someone to not go away. Milt almost thought that Mark was remembering talking to his mother when he was ten, when she was so sick before she died. Other bits and pieces made Milt think that Mark was reliving the time he was shot and the hospital stay afterwards. Sometimes, he was asking the judge to 'make them stop.' The problem was that Milt had no idea what it was Mark was asking to be stopped.

Finally, the mutterings stopped, and Mark was sleeping and the judge noticed that the temperature indicator on the monitor was going down bit by bit. In a matter of minutes, he had watched it go from 103 to 102. A few minutes later, the number 101 was showing. He'd been hovering around 101 for the last hour, and now, it was teetering between 99 and 100. The worst part of the fever had broken.

With the Judge's attention elsewhere, McCormick woke up and spied his friend, still camped out at his bedside. He mustered up a tired and exhausted smile. This guy was more than a Judge, he was an overgrown St. Bernard, ever faithful to a fault. Mark wondered why the guy stuck by him in the hospital. Didn't he realize that people went there to rest, not to have someone hovering over them? And look at him, he looked like he needed some rest himself. "Judge," Mark's voice was weak, "take a break. Go eat."

A startled Milt looked over and saw Mark's fever bright eyes looking at him. He just shook his head, indicating he wasn't hungry.

"Go on. Leave me alone for awhile," Mark whispered.

"FEVER BROKE," Milt wrote out.

Mark managed a little nod of understanding. "Guessed that." He still felt warm. "I'm just gonna sleep, you need a break too."

Poor kid. Milt got it. Mark needed some space. He got up, poured some water into a cup and placed it where Mark could reach it. He then took out a pen and pad and wrote, "BE BACK IN ABOUT AN HOUR?"

Milt was wanting to know how long he needed to leave someone who felt like he definitely needed to be left alone. Was an hour too long in his condition?

"Okay," Mark muttered. "Go eat. I'm okay now, fever broke."

He was tired, but he was also tired of sleeping. Once the Judge left the room, McCormick adjusted the hospital bed to a sitting position, still searching for some way he could feel comfortable and he grabbed the TV remote and flipped through the channels again. Why didn't hospitals have 'ordinary' television channels? He surfed right past MTV. The idea that he couldn't hear the music was too much for him at that moment. Talk shows, he couldn't hear what they were talking about. _My Darling Clementine_ was on, but his heart really wasn't into watching a western. There wasn't even a ball game on anywhere. He finally settled on a game show. _Wheel of Fortune_. He didn't have to hear what the contestants were saying in order to figure out the answer for himself. In a way it was just like trying to decipher Hardcastle's written notes, actually _Wheel_ was easier.

At least the ice-pick-in-the-head pain from his concussion had gone down to a sharp, painful throb that kept time with his heartbeat. If he didn't move his head, he could almost deal with the pain. His ribs though, they were another story. Each breath felt like a cord was pulling across his ribs and cutting into him. And then there were his lungs. He kept coughing up the muck he had breathed in from deep down inside, which only aggravated his ribs and his head. No, he just had to lay there in his bed, still, and then everything didn't hurt as much.

He recalled being so tired when he came back from the tests, and not sure exactly why. He had blamed it on whatever the nurses were shooting into his IV. He thought it was probably some pain reducer or something purposely made to make him sleep, not a fever brought about by an infection that had flared up. Even so, he ended up only sleeping for a few hours to help break the fever, and the pain, well, if that's what it was, it really wasn't helping either. Trying to sleep in the complete silence, everything was still too new and too unknown and, he was willing to admit it to himself, he was hurting and he was beyond scared. Even having the judge in the room with him hadn't helped. Mark couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear the judge grumbling about the lack of good TV channels, about how bad the food was in the cafeteria, nothing.

True to his word, the judge came back in an hour, just before the nurse came in again to check his vitals.

"Do I get to eat?" he asked her, not sure if she could hear him.

She mouthed something to the judge who wrote down, "LIQUIDS FOR NOW."

Mark closed his eyes for just a moment. He didn't want liquids. He wanted something a little more substantial. "Can I get something more than that?" he asked.

He could tell the nurse was hemming and hawing. He could see that the judge was trying to reason with her for maybe a little something other than just liquids. Finally, he wrote down, "SOUP, MILK AND JELLO, BUT SHE'S GOING TO LET YOU HAVE SOME OATMEAL TO SEE HOW YOUR STOMACH HANDLES IT. OKAY?"

Well, that was something.

Something but disappointing. The food wasn't all that appetizing although the warm soup, lukewarm oatmeal and milk actually felt good on his throat and in his empty stomach. Even the jello helped fill him up, but to not hear the spoon scrape the bowl? To not hear that slurp through his straw when he reached the bottom of his milk carton? He'd never realized how much of awareness was connected with hearing.

He purposely tried to not think about it, but it kept entering his mind – how would he be able to be Tonto to Hardcastle's Lone Ranger if this was permanent?

Not that he'd tell the judge any time soon, but he was worried. At the moment though, he was inexplicably tired again.

_**Chapter 12**_

Another day passed. A new doctor visited. Mark read the note again.

"MY NAME IS DOCTOR PEPPER. I'M AN AUDIOLOGIST AT SACRED HEART HOSPITAL, AND I WORK AT THE VA HOSPITAL WITH VETS WHO HAVE HEARING PROBLEMS."

Doctor Pepper.

It took every bit of precarious control that Mark didn't have at that moment to not laugh. This guy's life had to have been pretty rough when he was a kid with a name like that.

Mark offered him his hand and said, "Hi. I'm Mark McCormick, nice to meet you. I'm having a little hearing problem at the moment." He wanted to add, 'Wouldn't you like to be a pepper too?' but he held his immature comment to himself.

Doctor Pepper smiled and shook Mark's hand. He wrote down, "SO DOCTOR GUTHRIE HAS TOLD ME. I'D LIKE TO RUN A FEW TESTS, IF YOU DON'T MIND."

"I don't have any plans at the moment," Mark said, trying to sound a little more jovial than he felt.

For over an hour, Doctor Pepper ran through the gamut of sounds ranging from those with a strong bass to those with a powerful treble. He had a portable 'sound system' that he used via headphones that ran through a variety of frequencies and volumes. Every time he started a new test, he wrote out a note to Mark telling him exactly what he was doing. For the first time since he woke up, Mark felt a little more settled. At least he could see that someone was trying to find out what might or might not be the problem.

Finally, the doctor ran his last test. "FINISHED. I'M GOING TO CALL MISTER HARDCASTLE BACK INTO THE ROOM."

'Mister' Hardcastle. Mark could almost laugh. He'd heard Hardcase called _Judge_ for so long, hearing the title of _Mister_ seemed a little off. He saw the doctor open the door and the motion for the Judge to come in. Then, he watched as the two men spoke to each other. He wished life had a volume control.

Finally, Hardcastle sat down in the chair and the doctor took the pad and pen and wrote out a long note. "I'M TAKING THE TEST RESULTS BACK TO MY OFFICE, AND I WILL CONFER WITH DOCTORS GUTHRIE AND BISHOP IN A FEW DAYS. THE CAT SCANS SHOW THAT THERE IS SWELLING. SOMETIMES, THAT'S A REASON YOU CAN'T HEAR, BUT I CAN'T SAY RIGHT NOW THAT THAT'S THE CASE WITH YOU."

"Think it's permanent?" Mark asked him.

"RIGHT NOW, I CAN'T TELL YOU BECAUSE IT'S TOO SOON TO KNOW. WE WILL HAVE TO RULE OUT OTHER REASONS, AND THE SWELLING IS A FACTOR THAT COULD CLOUD THE DIAGNOSIS. ONCE THE SWELLING GOES DOWN, WE MAY BE ABLE TO DETERMINE THE EXACT CAUSE."

"You don't know either," Mark muttered.

"RIGHT NOW, NO. I WISH I COULD GIVE YOU AN ABSOLUTE ANSWER, BUT WE HAVE TO BE PATIENT. I WON'T TELL YOU NOT TO WORRY, BUT I WILL SAY THAT YOU HAVE EVERY REASON TO BE HOPEFUL. I'VE SEEN SITUATIONS LIKE YOURS MANY TIMES. WE JUST HAVE TO WAIT."

Mark didn't particular like the "we" nonsense that doctors used. They weren't the ones having to wait. It was the patients.

"How about making a guess? I won't hold you to it," Mark suggested.

The doctor seemed a bit ambivalent, but then wrote down, "THERE IS A CHANCE THAT WHAT YOU HAVE IS CONDUCTIVE DEAFNESS. THAT CAN CLEAR UP ON ITS OWN OR THERE'S AN OPERATION THAT COULD HELP. I'D LIKE TO GO OVER THE CAT SCANS FIRST AND MY OWN TEST RESULTS AS WELL AS CONFER WITH YOUR OTHER DOCTORS BEFORE MAKING THAT DIAGNOSIS."

"Can you make it even if there is swelling in there?"

"MAY I SAY THAT THE ANSWER IS A CAUTIOUS 'SOMETIMES?'"

Mark almost laughed at that. He watched as Doctor Pepper and the judge talked, and then the doctor took his portable sound system and left. The judge tapped him on the arm and handed a note to him.

"DOCTOR PEPPER? POOR GUY, WHAT A HANDLE."

"What's the matter, Judge? Wouldn't you like to be a pepper too?" He laughed heartily. "I wanted to use that line on him but I held back. I had a hard time keeping a straight face with that. What'd he tell you?"

The judge scribbled something out pretty fast. "GOT TO WAIT UNTIL SWEELING GOES DOWN. TAKES A FEW WEEKS, MAYBE A MONTH."

A few weeks to a month.

He was stuck in the quiet for a few weeks without knowing if it'd end sometime or if he was going to be stuck there for the rest of his life.

"And if it is conductive deafness? You've already told me that's what Guthrie was thinking it could be."

"THEN WE GOT POTIONS."

Potions? He meant _options_. "Judge, you really got to work on your spelling. A few weeks of this, and we'll be driving each other nuts."

OOOOO

"It's been days, Toby….How hard can it be to find a guy who was in an explosion?...There aren't that many hospitals in the area… Just find out where the guy is." Kerns slammed the phone down.

His so-called partners hadn't been happy in the manner that the federal agent was discovered, but at least they knew that the agent HAD been found and killed in the explosion. They were safe unless that intruder had gotten something on them. It had been an extreme situation which called for extreme measures. If the Feds actually discovered their operation…

The phone rang at that moment. Kerns picked up the handset. "Hello?"

"_Mister Kerns, I trust you are in a good state of health_?"

Kerns closed his eyes in a grimace. "I'm fine for the most part. The burns and bruises are healing up."

"_Good, good. Such an unfortunate turn of events for all of us_."

"It could have been worse. As it stands now, the explosion may have covered up our tracks and bought us time."

"_The local news reports have exposed exactly who is involved in our business. The company's name was mentioned. That is not covering up tracks or buying time."_

"Yeah, but you're safe. You've practically got your own version of diplomatic immunity." Kerns was not going to take the fall for this disaster.

"_Since it was our warehouse that exploded, we're being investigated by several branches of the government. This has brought us to the attention of people we didn't want in the loop. We are closing down all non-contracted operations temporarily. I would strongly suggest that you cover your tracks by finding the intruder that survived and deal with him. Until then, we will not be doing business. Have I made myself clear?"_

Kerns couldn't believe it! He was being dictated to? He was the one who took all the risks! "Yes," he said through clenched teeth. "I've already started searching for him. It shouldn't take long."

"_Good. We cannot have __any__ way to trace us. Do not try to contact us, Mister Kerns. We'll contact you,"_ and he hung up.

Kerns sat perfectly still. The veiled threat had been obvious. They cannot have any way to trace them? That meant that he had to find the intruder and kill him or his partners would kill him and sever any connection that way.

Toby had better hurry.

OOOOO

Doctor Guthrie came into the room, finally noting the squeak of the door. Hardcastle's head turned toward him while McCormick's attention was on the fishing magazine he was reading.

"Judge, how are you doing today?" the doctor asked.

"I'm fine. He's not." He thumbed his way over to McCormick.

"Oh?" the doctor watched as the judge got Mark's attention and pointed toward the door. "Sorry to hear that."

"Hi, Doc," Mark all but mumbled.

"It's nothing medical. He's bored. It's hard enough keeping him entertained when he's in the hospital. This time, it's a bit more of a challenge. My hand can't keep up with his mouth."

The doctor nodded, a smile on his face. "I can imagine. Well, I have some news for you."

"Good news?"

"Possibly. What's the easiest way to do this? I could write out everything myself –"

"No, you talk. I'll write," he answered as he pulled out the pad and pen.

"DOCTOR HAS MEWS."

"Mews?" Mark shook his head.

"NEWS SMART ALECK," the judge wrote in.

The doctor laughed. What these two must do to annoy each other when they're not sitting in a hospital…

"First of all, the burns are healing nicely. We'll be taking the bandages off today. Mark's ribs are going to have to heal on their own, so that might take a few weeks. However, he should be okay for everyday activities as long as he doesn't overexert himself."

"That's the easy stuff, Doc, and honestly, he knows it already," Hardcastle said as he wrote down "BURNS DOING GOOD. RIBS HEALING. NO YARDWORK FOR A WHILE."

"I figured that much out," Mark answered. "What about my ears?"

Guthrie tried not to smile. These two really were direct speakers! "Now, according to the tests we've run and the results of the new CAT scan, the swelling has gone down a little. We've consulted with Doctor Pepper, and we all preliminarily agree that what Mark is suffering from is Conductive Deafness. He didn't suffer a skull fracture, but the explosion did result in his having a concussion. We had to rule out a few other conditions because the percentage of hearing loss and vestibular disturbances appearing after the fracture of the temporal bone is higher than in cases with skull fractures without fracture of the temporal bone or with brain concussion alone. Basically, Conductive Deafness was a possibility but it wasn't the first thing we would have ordinarily looked for given his specific injuries."

"I can't write all that, so I'll go with this," He read it out loud as he let McCormick read it. "YOU HIT YOUR HEAD, GOT A CONCUSION, IT AFFECTED YOUR HERRING, NOT USUAL FOR THIS CONDITION."

"Herring?"

"HEARING."

"Condition?"

"CONDUCTIVE DEAFNESS."

"So if how I got it isn't usual, is it permanent?" Mark asked.

The doctor shook his head. "Tell him that this is very hopeful news. Conductive Deafness caused by head injury usually disappears in two months time."

"COULD GET HERRING BACK IN 2 MONTHS TIME."

"Hearing, can you learn how to spell Hardcase, sheesh, although you are making me hungry." McCormick cracked, then he let the words sink in. Milt turned the paper around to reread what he had written down. "Two months huh?" Mark almost shouted out. "Doctor Pepper said something about a few weeks. Now you're saying I won't be able to hear for two months?"

"Possibly," the doctor warned. "However, if the deafness remains, then it's possible that some of the bones inside the ear have been dislocated. If that's the case, then our option would be an operation."

"IF BONES DISLOCATED, NEED OPERATION."

"An operation," Mark groaned.

"Please don't be discouraged. If we have to go in and operate, it's a very easy and quick fix, I've done quite a few of them with a great deal of success," Doctor Guthrie tooted his own horn.

"IT'S QUICK, EASY AND SUCCESSFUL."

"Then let's do it now."

"We have to let the concussion fully heal and allow for the swelling to go down which could take about two months as I've said. In the majority of cases, vestibular disturbances can disappear within six months after the head injury."

"THIS COULD ALL GO AWAY IN 6 MONTHS."

"Now it's six months?" Mark's voice sounded surprised? "Can we be a little more specific here?"

Doctor Guthrie shook his head. "I'm sorry, no. Basically, we'll have to see how you progress over the next couple of months. It could all go away or it might not. We really can't tell at the moment."

"WE'LL HAVE TO WAIT IT THROUGH."

"Wait it through," Mark repeated. He was silent for a moment, then, "Better plan on hanging up your silver bullets, Kemo Sabe. No way you're going on with business as usual if no one's there to back you up."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 13**_

Five days after the explosion, the doctors let Mark out of the hospital after running another series of tests and scans on his head, more specifically his hearing. The swelling still existed. There was nothing new there. His world remained achingly quiet. The burns were still a bit red and itchy, but they were healing. Bruised ribs were taped up temporarily, and pulled muscles had had a chance to work their way back to normal – a bit. The cracked rib gave him a few problems, but nothing that would keep him from doing every day, ordinary activities, not that what he and Hardcastle did was ordinary. Still, he felt better than he had when he woke up in the hospital. At least that pounding headache had finally faded.

Because of all the tests he had to endure throughout the day, it was now about 5:30pm when he had signed the last paper, the release, which he sarcastically joked to Hardcastle that he had signed his hearing away. It most likely was sitting on the trauma room floor ready to be swept into the garbage.

Milt had brought the Coyote in an effort to cheer him up. As they walked out into the late afternoon sun and haze, Mark spotted the car and his sour mood went from bad to worse. What was the Judge thinking, torturing him even more by bringing his car, a car he could no longer drive? Hardcastle was busy fishing the keys out of his pocket and he held them out for the kid to grab.

"Why'd you bring my car? It can't be legal for me to drive," he said sadly. "What's the use?"

Milt continued to dangle the keys.

"Judge, seriously, you should know this. Do I need to remind you that I can't hear? It's not fun to torment me."

Hardcastle reached for his hand and set the keys in his palm and then he pulled out his trusted tablet of paper. "HEARING DOESN'T MATTER, YOU CAN DRIVE, THERE'S NO LAW AGAINST IT."

"Are you sure?" The skepticism in his voice was evident.

Hardcastle rolled his eyes and scrawled. "JUDGE REMEMBER? I KNOW THE LAW."

"Well, if you say its okay, I suppose I can do it."

"YOU CAN DO IT. I'LL LISTEN FOR YOU. BESDIES, YOU DON'T LIKE MY DRIVING."

"That's the truth!"

Hardcastle gave him a pat on the back and they both got into the car. Mark put the keys in the ignition and fired up the engine. Before he put the car into gear, he saw Hardcastle furiously writing down a note. He waited to read what he had to say.

"I WON'T WRITE WHILE YOU'RE DRIVING."

"That's good, Judge, 'cause I won't be reading either."

From there it was back to Gulls Way. Mark wasn't driving at his usual speed. He was almost driving… slow? How could he explain it? He couldn't hear the other cars, and it felt very strange. Everything seemed perfect as the car hummed along the highway before getting onto the PCH. He could feel the thrum of the tires as it passed over asphalt. He could feel the vibrations of the car through the steering wheel. It 'felt' normal. As Mark merged the Coyote onto the familiar road, he felt the car lurch a little and he glanced over to see Hardcastle's face. "Did you feel that?"

The judge nodded. Mark kept focusing on the road, but he'd sneak a peek in Hardcastle's direction. He could tell that the judge was hearing something. Finally the judge motioned for him to pull over to the side. "What? What is it?"

The Judge was quickly writing. "AFTER THE LURCH, STARTED MAKING A NOSE."

"A nose?"

Hardcastle kept his composure. "NOISE."

"What kind of noise? Is it still making it?"

"KNOCKING OR PINGING."

"Those are two completely different nouns, Judge, at least they are when it comes to cars. Which is it?"

"MORE OF A PING."

"My side or your side?"

The judge listened carefully trying to determine where the noise came from.

"MINE"

"That could be a couple of different things. Are you sure it's a ping and not a knock?"

"COULD BE A TAP."

"Or it could be all in your head! I can't believe you don't know this stuff." Mark's temper flared as his frustration showed. "Let's just get her home and park it. There's not much I can do for her now."

"I'LL HELP." Milt quickly wrote down and held up for Mark to see. "OR WE'LL GET MECHANIC."

The last line was clearly an insult to McCormick. "No, no one touches this engine but me. I'd rather have her on blocks." He put the car into gear, refusing to read any more notes. It was only a short drive now, back to the estate. After turning up the familiar drive, he coasted the Coyote up the path and backed her in neat as a pin into the garage. He shut off the engine, pulled the keys out and handed them back over to Milt.

Neither one of them had spotted the late model Ford that had been following them from a distance all the way from the hospital. It now sat right outside the gate.

OOOOO

Kerns cautiously opened the door to his condo and saw Toby, looking like a bum, standing outside the door with a stupid grin on his face.

"I got that information you wanted. How's about letting me in your fancy house?"

Kerns was annoyed. It was the price he paid for having started out the same way. He though, unlike the piece of garbage Toby, always wanted more. Being a stupid two-bit hustler was only getting him longer prison terms. He wanted the power and the money. The downside to the 'glory' was having to still deal with the likes of the 'Toby's' in the world. "Get in here." He pulled the street-loser inside and quickly closed the door.

"My, my, aren't we all high and mighty. Whattsa matter, Timmy? Things getting a little explosive for ya?" Toby cracked.

"That's not funny. Did you do what I asked?"

"Yeah, o' course I did. I just waltzed right into that hospital and found out who both of 'em were. Even know where they live, 'cause I followed 'em. It's some big, old fancy estate called Gulls Way out in Malibu."

Kerns raised his head and got angry with Toby, lunging at him and putting his forearm into his chest and pushing him against the wall. "I just wanted the names, Toby."

"Relax, they didn't see me," Toby pushed him off. "Do you want to know who they are or not? I don't need this rough shit."

Kerns backed away. "Who are they?" he said calmly.

"The guy inside the warehouse with you is an ex-con. Name's Mark McCormick. Did a few years at Quentin for GTA. And your explosion really rocked him. He's deaf right now. I found that out from a pretty little candy striper." There was that sleazy grin again.

"McCormick? I don't know him, never heard of him. You said he was with another guy?"

"Yeah, you'll enjoy this one. He lives with a judge. Some old retired dude named Milton C. Hardcastle."

"Hardcastle?" Kerns mood completely changed. "Are you positive about this, Toby?"

"Hey, I told you, she was a pretty little candy striper. When I got through with her, she told me anything I wanted to know. You know that guy huh? That judge?"

"Maybe," now Kerns was distracted and not in the mood to talk. He walked over to the desk and pulled out an envelope and slapped it in Toby's hands. "There's your money. Now get out of here."

Toby peered inside and smiled again. "Anytime, Timmy. Always a pleasure doing business with ya."

As soon as he was alone, Kerns thought it through. Maybe things weren't as bad as he thought. Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. That tough old piece of gristle was still haunting him. Hell, he was still haunting anyone that had sneaked out of his courtroom. Last he heard, Hardcastle was waging a 'war' against those who walked out of his courtroom on a technicality. Word on the street was that he was good at it, too. His help, the ex-con, now it all made sense. Kerns himself had walked out on a technicality. That's why they were there. That also meant that the Feds hadn't taken the bait. Maybe their tracks were still covered? That should make his partners happy.

However, it didn't change the fact that the ex-con had to die. Hardcastle too!

He reached into his pocket for a small address book and looked under the K's for the name Ray Katz. He had a job for him.

_**Chapter 14**_

Note writing or any type of communication between the two of them had cooled off for the evening. Milt insisted that the kid stay in the house rather than the gatehouse, and McCormick was too tired to argue with him. Deafening silence was deafening silence no matter the location.

Hardcastle ordered up some pizza and found Mark idly hanging out in the den. He walked in and went to turn on the TV.

Mark turned away from it, choosing not to be reminded of things he couldn't do. The TV required ears to hear the talking. He stood up and went over to the nearby bookshelf and plucked off a book World War II Ships. Rather than going back to the chair, he eased himself onto the couch, as far away from the TV as possible, although he could still see it out of the corner of his eye.

Hardcastle ignored his silent outburst. He knew he had to give him some space. They both had a lot of adjusting to do to this situation, and McCormick was going to have to figure out how to do that for himself, just like he had to as well. Still, he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid. He grabbed a paper plate and put a couple of slices of pizza on it and took it over to him. He left the paper and pen behind, instead just offering the plate of food.

McCormick looked up when he saw him holding the plate and took it from him. "Thanks," he added. Milt simply gave him a nod and went back to the chair to see what was on TV.

He settled in on a baseball game. The Dodgers were hosting Cincinnati at Dodger Stadium. McCormick settled in on the book for awhile, seemingly content. Hardcastle glanced over at him from time to time and saw his eyes focusing in on the game. At about the bottom of the 2nd inning, McCormick set the book on the table and got up to get another slice of pizza and then settled into one of the chairs, rather than the couch.

"That last pitch was a strike, and Dave Anderson can't play short worth crap."

Hardcastle set his plate down and jotted down a note. "WHAT ELSE IS MEW?"

"Mew? Again with the mew? Judge, there's a clear difference between the M and the N"

"NEW, NEW, NEW!"

"Your writing is as crummy as his fielding. At least Valenzuela is pitching, so the Dodgers have a chance."

"LASORDA MIGHT HAVE FOUND THE COMBINATION THIS YEAR."

"Yeah, maybe so. Ah, come on, a pop-up?"

And so the evening went along rather peacefully, they settled more into their new mode of communication, finished up their pizza and before the 7th inning stretch, the two of them had both drifted off for a nap, completely exhausted from the prior days and both happy to be at home amidst familiar surroundings.

It was the first crack of lightning followed by the immediate updraft of wind sheer and intense torrential rain that woke Milt up. Startled at first, he looked at the TV and saw that not only was El Toro pitching, the local weather man had broken in with an update that a severe thunderstorm was passing through Malibu. "No kidding," Milt said, as he got to his feet to go have a look out of the window. His eyes tracked over to Mark who still slept soundly in the chair, every line of worry or pain was gone from his face. He didn't even realize there was a storm going on.

Hardcastle walked through the house quickly, checking windows and making sure that everything inside was battened down.

The rain intensified and the thunder and lightening began in earnest. McCormick had woken up in the midst of the storm and was standing by the window watching the whole thing pass over. It was an oddity that he couldn't begin to describe especially after all the thunderstorms he'd lived through in his thirty-odd years. This one was new. He saw each jagged line of lightening and then, rather than hearing the thunder, he _felt_ it rumble through his body. He watched as the wind and the rain ripped and tore across Gulls Way, yet not hearing the torrent left the powerful storm more like an everyday occurrence. It still _looked_ powerful and intimidating but without the sound, the intensity of it was greatly diminished.

Hardcastle came up alongside of him.

"I felt the thunder on the bottom of my feet. Felt like it came right up through the floor," he explained and he pointed outside to a spot on the lawn where one of the trees had been uprooted by the wind. "Or maybe I felt that getting ripped out. Guess I'll be busy digging that sucker out and cutting it up huh?"

Hardcastle scowled and turned to get some paper off his desk. "NO YARD WORK TILL RIBS MEAL"

"What?"

He rewrote, "HEAL."

Mark nodded, "Did the Dodgers win?"

"EL TORO WAS PITCHING, REMEMBER?"

_**Chapter 15**_

He was dreaming again, and he was still at the race track. _Mark checked the sign his pit crew chief held up. They'd only gone one hundred laps. He was doing fine in the race. He was currently in third place and was holding his own, heck, he'd even moved up from the seventh spot. The old adage "slow and steady wins the race" obviously never related to a NASCAR race – why was he racing at NASCAR? He still didn't know why. Was this another dream? Slow and steady wasn't going to hack it, not with the racers Mark was up against. He needed to push the pedal harder and start making his move. He needed to be aggressive, like he always had when he was racing._

_He sped around the turns, maintaining his position. He saw the sign from his pit crew chief that said he needed to pull in and change tires. As Mark made the last turn, he stopped into the pit and his crew made a rapid tire change and filled up his tank._

"_You're doing great, kiddo!"_

_Mark looked over and saw the judge standing right behind the crew chief. "Judge?"_

"_Go on! Win this thing! We've got work to do!"_

_What work? Mark was in the middle of a race! It didn't make sense, the two things didn't belong together. Racing and crime fighting?_

_The pit crew finished their work and the crew chief waved Mark off. As he sped back into the race, he wondered, 'What was Hardcastle doing here?'_

OOOOO

5:30a.m.

Milt sat up on the side of the bed. What little sleep he had hadn't been enough. He rubbed at his face, feeling the stubble of a beard starting. Funny thing was, he now heard everything, every little house noise, anything that wasn't normal and Mark heard nothing. It was stupidly ironic.

5:30 a.m. Nope, no guerilla basketball this morning, and he really could use a game right then, work out all the frustration and worry he felt. However, guerilla basketball was something played with an opponent, and he wouldn't have an opponent until Mark's ribs healed.

What a week.

He got up and walked out into the hallway, down the stairs and toward the guest room. He peeked in and saw Mark sound asleep. He waited till he saw his breathing push the blanket up and down. It was probably the first decent night's sleep the kid had gotten since the accident. Hospital beds just weren't comfortable, he could personally attest to that. He liked sleeping in his own bed when he came home from the hospital after being shot by Weed Randall.

McCormick had moved into the main house after the judge came home. He never bothered to ask, he just did it. Not that Milt would have argued because, he'd never admit it out loud, he was happy for the help that McCormick gave him. The doctor had said no exertions, so there was Mark doing all the work for him, never questioning, just doing, day in and day out, week after long week. Heck, he'd never seen the kid that scared or ambitious before. It wasn't until after all the hubbub died down that Frank had told him all that happened, but the one thing he hadn't really expected was how worried Mark had been. He was scared the judge was going to die. He wasn't worried about what would happen to him, if he'd get kicked off the property or given to another parole officer or end up on the streets because he couldn't find a job or even end up back in prison. He was only worried if Milt was going to live or die. That concern carried over for a few weeks after the judge had been released from the hospital. They put the bad guy hunting business on the back burner while Milt recuperated, and finally, things got back to normal. At least, as normal 'normal' was for them. The kid had really surprised him with that adventure, surprised him and made him proud. Milt briefly wondered if there had been anyone else in his life that he wanted to make proud. He'd been on his own for so long, answering only to himself…

His thoughts were interrupted when Mark mumbled something in his sleep. It sounded like 'why are you here?' His voice sounded confused. McCormick always looked younger when he was asleep. All of the sarcastic facial expressions were gone, all the guarded looks fell away. Milt always wondered what was it about the two of them that let them yell at each other, get on each other's last nerve, argue, fuss, fight but still be best friends? Maybe it was because they were alike in certain respects. Milt had sarcastic facial expressions and guarded looks to keep people from getting too close. Only McCormick knew how to look past them and see the real Milt Hardcastle, just like Milt could do with Mark.

The kid was a bundle of surprises though. This was the same kid who played rough on the basketball court, who could drive like a bat-out-of-hell and who would risk everything to save Hardcastle no matter what, and Milt's need, perhaps almost egotistical need to go after all the criminals who walked out of his court on a technicality had cost them so much already. How could he forget that the kid nearly died just a few months earlier? And still Milt persisted with his cases. What bothered the judge now was what Mark told him when they were talking with the doctor. Hang up the silver bullets because the Lone Ranger can't ride alone? Was he serious? He sure sounded like he was. Maybe McCormick was ready to quit, and Milt couldn't blame him. If he remained deaf, he'd have his hands full with all that he would have to overcome. They couldn't continue to chase after lunatics if Mark had to learn how to communicate in a silent world. No, the kid was right, they'd both have to hang it up.

Amazing. Everything that had happened, everything that was happening and the kid was worried about _him_.

Hardcastle vaguely remembered some of the things Nancy had told him about Tommy's friend, and how his family had to re-engineer certain items in their home when they moved in. He tried to think of the adjustments they'd have to make over the next couple of months – how he hoped the adjustments would only be temporary – and wondered where to start. He didn't want it to look like he was making changes _permanently_. The kid didn't need to think that, but some things would need to be considered. He had glanced through a few pamphlets at the hospital about devices for the 'hearing impaired.' Flashing lights for fire alarms, alarm clocks and doorbells. Milt thought that maybe the flashing fire alarms – for emergency purposes – would be accepted by Mark. Forget the alarm clock. That might be going too far. The doorbell could wait as well. But what about if it _was_ permanent? They'd have to learn sign language and certainly retire the crimebusting. Milt really didn't want to consider that what they were looking at presently was actually a glimpse of their future.

He wandered into the kitchen and decided he needed coffee. Within minutes, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee began wafting through the kitchen. He'd wait to make breakfast after Mark woke up.

They'd get through this, one day at a time.

OOOOO

The first few days went by relatively smoothly, not much differently than the few days in the hospital had. However, Mark was becoming a bit frustrated. He had woke up about his usual time, wandered downstairs where Hardcastle was waiting to start breakfast and forced him to take his pain pills. The pills didn't squelch the pain from his busted up ribs, they just left him feeling numb to just about everything. He wasn't tired either, but the minute he'd sit down and get still, he'd fall to sleep. He hated it and he wanted to stop taking them. They tried to do little things to occupy time until lunch. The same routine was followed until supper time. They watched another baseball game and then both went to bed. It was a very uneventful day.

And it was _quiet_.

There were moments when Mark could almost forget that he couldn't hear anything because he'd get involved in doing a small task like walking down to the gatehouse or rearranging his tools in the garage, but then he'd see something, a bird or an incoming wave and realize he couldn't really hear them. He could imagine that he could, he could even 'almost' hear them in his head because he knew what they were supposed to sound like. Even though his world was quiet at the moment, the echoes of memories allowed him to remember the sounds so it wasn't as bad as it could have been, he guessed.

The nights were the worst. Hardcastle insisted that he stay in the main house due to the medication he was taking and because he was recuperating. He didn't need to climb stairs with healing ribs. But lying there in bed, in the darkness, night after long night, began to become unbearable. Closing his eyes didn't help, it just strengthened the agonizing, dreadful feeling of hopelessness. There was no sound, no squeaks in the floor, no bathroom flushes, no door closings, no crickets chirping, no alarms going off to wake him to each new day.

It was insufferable silence of epic proportions.

Maybe, he thought, if he'd been deaf since birth and had no knowledge of sounds…the unmistakable sound of Hardcastle incessant dribbling the basketball at 6am, the Pacific Ocean breaking over the rocks on Seagull Beach and the sound of bacon frying on a Sunday morning, it might not have been so bad. But he had heard all those things, and they were etched into his memory and now it just _wasn't there_. The world was somehow made duller and colorless.

His mind was being overworked by thoughts of _what if_ or _remember this_. The past and the future. Yet here he was, now, in the present and he didn't know how to deal with it. Actually, that wasn't completely true. He was angry. He was helping the good guys stop a bad guy, and something bad happened. Sure, bad things happened to good people every day, and no good deed went unpunished, but every platitude and cliché didn't take away the fact he was angry about the whole thing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

How was he going to deal with everything?

Day by day, that's how he could start. _Just take it one day at a time Skid_, how many times had Flip told him that as he was teaching him how to race? He told him every day would get better, every day he'd learn something new. That's what he had to do now. He could get through the next two months. He could. Worst things had happened to him, and he had survived them. Hardcastle was putting up the files temporarily until they knew what they were dealing with, no way was Mark willing to let Milt go out alone. It was way too dangerous. Soon, they'd be saddling up Silver and Scout and riding off after the bad guys again.

The doctor had said two months, right? He did 14 months in Clarkesville and two years in San Quentin he didn't think he owed. What's two months in comparison?

OOOOO

It was nearing dinner time, and Harper decided to swing over to Gulls Way on his way home from the office. He rang the doorbell and was momentarily surprised that Milt answered the door until he internally chided himself for forgetting that the usual greeter, Mark, hadn't heard the bell.

"Hi, Milt. Thought I'd see how you guys are doing?" He managed to smile. Milt gave him a bit of a grumble, and Frank got the immediate impression that this situation was equally hard on Milt as it was on Mark. "You guys are okay, aren't you?"

"We're getting by, Frank. Come on in. Want a beer?"

"Sure, if you got a cold one?"

"Always do, follow me. McCormick's in the kitchen cooking. He'll be glad to see you, too. I know he's tired of looking at me."

"He's cooking, huh?"

"Yeah, he said he didn't need to hear to cook. He thinks I'm being overprotective or something to that effect. Seems like we're running out of ideas of things that don't involve hearing."

"Should you be avoiding it?"

"According to him, it's only temporary." They stood at the doorway and McCormick had his back to them, never noting they'd come in, "He doesn't want to get used to the 'not hearing.' I can't blame him for that. You're more than welcome to change his mind, if you'd like to try."

Milt headed to the refrigerator without so much as a look from Mark. Harper stayed by the doorway and flicked the lights on and off a few times. McCormick instantly turned to see Frank and gave him a wave. "Hi, Frank."

"See, that wasn't so hard, Milt, was it?" Harper waved back. There was another grumble from Milt who dug out two beers from the refrigerator, but who had clearly made note of the simple light switch trick.

"Wanna stay for dinner?" Mark asked.

"Nah, no," he began to say, then he shook his head and said, "Claudia"

Mark understood right away. "No need to explain Frank. If I went home to her cooking every night, I'd turn down my weak attempt, too."

Harper picked up some paper off the table. "SMELLS GOOD IN HERE."

"Just some spaghetti."

"You got anything new for us, Frank?" Milt asked.

Frank took a swallow of beer. "I wish I did. I have a lot of bits and pieces but nothing that's bridging anything together. I'm trying to get a list of known associates for Kerns though, but it's taking some considerable time. The guy knows everyone in town, well, all the ones involved in shady dealings."

"You got something, Frank?" Mark asked.

Harper quickly jotted down the same explanation. "NOPE, STILL TRYING TO GATHER EVERYTHING TOGETHER. RUNNING INTO BRICK WALLS."

"I was hoping to get a look at your file on him, Milt?" Frank asked.

"Sure, let me grab it." Hardcastle got up and went to the den.

"MILT'S GETTING HIS FILE ON KERNS, I'LL CROSS CHECK IT WITH WHAT I HAVE."

Mark nodded his understanding.

"Here you go, Frank."

"Listen, I'll look through it and get it back to you tomorrow, is that okay?"

"Sure, keep it as long as you'd like."

Frank jotted down another note as he polished off his beer. He stood up and took it over to Mark.

McCormick read it and laughed.

Harper flicked the light switch on and off again to let Mark know he was leaving.

"I'll show myself out, Milt. Talk to you later."

"Yeah, bye, Frank."

Milt stood up and went over to McCormick to ask about the note. 'HEY, WHAT WAS SO FUNNY?"

Mark handed it over to Milt to read.

"NOTHING'S CHANGED AROUND HERE, COLD BEER, BAD FOOD AND HARDCASTLE STILL GRUMBLING, BET YOU DON'T MISS THAT LAST ONE SO MUCH HUH?"


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 16**_

Nearly a week had gone by since they came home from the hospital. Nothing much had changed. Frank had stopped by a couple of times. Once was to return Kerns' file without finding anything new or out of the ordinary, other times, he just stopped to see how they were. Milt wasn't surprised that Mark seemed more relaxed around Frank. It had to be the fact that Frank wasn't tense or upset when he was there. Basically, he acted like he was going with the flow, and that was the complete opposite of how Milt and Mark were dealing with their situation. Having someone come in and just accept things the way they were and make whatever allowances were necessary without preamble or complaint – that was one of the best things Frank could do for Mark.

Nothing bothered Hardcastle so much in a long time as seeing his friend rendered hearing impaired. They'd both made some headway into this new situation they faced, but their communication was off and they hadn't been able to come up with anything that would help sync things back to what they had been. The kid was managing to read his lips for a few words, here and there, but they were relying on the notepad-and-pen solution which was not easy on either one of them, and that didn't even include the writer's cramp Milt had going.

Milt tossed the whole situation around in his head. How could they communicate more effectively? Back that thought up, Hardcastle, how could he convince the kid that they needed to communicate more effectively? The convincing was the first half of the battle, devising the plan was probably the easier of the two. They already used some rudimentary hand signs when they worked on cases and needed to keep silent if they were in a precarious spot. Maybe learning some 'real' signs would help make the time transition better? Heck, McCormick's hearing loss was probably only temporary, but they could use the time to learn something that would help them on cases down the road.

It was only 6am, but Milt had been already been up an hour. This was his schedule, up early, play basketball, get on with the day's work. He'd given up the basketball for the past week, at first for obvious reasons. Now, he just didn't want to remind the kid or himself of things he couldn't do right at the present moment since his ribs were still pretty sore. He knew McCormick would most likely sleep through him bouncing the ball outside, but honestly, shooting baskets alone just didn't have the same allure.

He wandered around the still dark house. It was quiet, but not the same quiet that McCormick was dealing with. He heard the grandfather clock ticking as he went into the den and heard the refrigerator in the kitchen start to hum as he went to make coffee. The running water from the faucet, followed by the sad call of a lone seagull all reminded him what McCormick was missing.

Okay, he was feeling guilty.

He scratched his head and wondered.

He tried watching television, but the news bored him. He muted the sound on the TV and began to look through his bookshelves for something to distract him… there, on the bottom shelf, behind a few old Readers' Digest Condensed books, was a book he'd completely forgotten about. Half an hour later, he sat behind his desk, reading furiously through the rather large tome. Several cups of coffee later, he found himself completely involved in the book and as he read, he took his fingers, held them up in front of his face and practiced making signs.

The book, an abridged version of ASL (American Sign Language), had sat in his book collection for years. He finally remembered that Nancy and some of the other moms had decided to take a class in ASL when that little boy, what was his name? Alex? Yep that was it, Alex, moved into the neighborhood. The mothers thought they could each learn some of the more useful signs, teach them to their own children and eventually help Alex get along in a mostly hearing world or, at the very least, the children would be able to communicate. He stopped reading for a moment to recall how excited Tommy had been when he had learned to spell out his name in sign. He couldn't have been more than five or six at the time, and he'd taught Milt how to do it. He flipped through the pages to find the listing of the alphabet in sign. Milt's fingers suddenly spelled out 'Tommy.' How about that? He sort of remembered how to sign it. Probably because Tommy had repeated the motion all night long, through the teeth brushing, through the bath and into the bedtime story. No, this wasn't hard to learn and it wouldn't take long. Besides, if kids could do it, so could Hardcastle and McCormick. He needed more coffee.

OOOOO

It was nearly ten when McCormick finally woke up. He reminded himself that he should leave the drapes open to allow light in since not hearing any noises was preventing him from waking up on the early side. His sleeping in had to be driving the judge crazy. There was nothing like a late riser to agitate the early bird. Of course, the pain pills bore part of the blame. Those things did knock him out a bit. How much longer was it going to be before his ribs quit hurting? He was tired of feeling like he was swimming in quicksand after taking some of the meds.

As he came down the stairs, he glanced inside the den, didn't see the judge sitting in there, but he was now observing more since he wasn't able to rely on his hearing. He spotted a huge book propped open on the Judge's desk. Inside he went to see what it was.

_American Sign Language._ A book on sign language? Mark physically took a step back from the desk in order to control his reaction. He was shocked. Was there some other sort of meaning here? Did the judge know something about his hearing that he didn't, like maybe this was permanent? Had the doctors _told_ Hardcastle something that Mark hadn't heard. This was like a full force punch in the gut that left you gasping for air.

McCormick composed himself, picked the heavy book off the desk and strode out of the den in search of the Judge.

He found him in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee.

McCormick let the book crash onto the kitchen table with a massive thud. "What the hell is this?" He shouted at the top of his lungs.

The judge didn't need him to speak because he'd been shocked by the imploding sound of the book. "Morning," he said eyeing up his friend, and holding up his coffee, "Want some?" he mouthed.

"No, I don't want coffee, I want to know why you are learning sign language?"

Hardcastle set the mug on the counter and found some paper to write on. "THOUGHT IT'D HELP US COMMUNICATE, USE IT ON CASES ALREADY." He used his fingers to indicated some fairly common hand gestures, like 'Shh' and the good old index-finger point to tell someone to move, followed by the international hand signal of gun.

"That's BS, Hardcase. What do you know about my hearing that I don't?"

That question threw the Judge for a loop. McCormick was thinking that the judge was lying to him? "YOU KNOW WHAT I KNOW."

"Then why the book? Is this permanent?" He reached up to touch one of his ears.

Hardcastle shook his head no. "DOCS THINK IT'S TEMPORARY. I WOULDN'T LIE TO YA."

McCormick was neither convinced or satisfied. He'd noticed a sticker in the front of the book, which indicated that it belonged to someone else. To him that meant Hardcastle was preparing for this to be a long-term situation and he borrowed the book. Mark went over to the book and pointed at the name and address on the label. It belonged to a nearby neighbor. "Why are you borrowing books then? If it's temporary, I don't need to learn this, you don't need to learn this, we're getting along fine. We don't have to do this."

It took Milt a minute to think of what to say to him. "THIS ISN'T FINE." He pointed back and forth between the two of them. It was more than tense. Then he added another new note, "WE DON'T HAVE TO, BUT WE SHOULD WANT TO."

That was not the answer McCormick was expecting. "I don't _want_ to, that's why. I want my hearing back, I'm gonna get my hearing back. I don't want to waste my time learning something like sign language. I'm never gonna need it. If everyone's being honest with me, then I'll be fine in a couple of months."

"IN THE MEANTIME, WE NEED THIS. WOULD YOU JUST TRY IT?"

"No, give it back to," he looked at the label, "Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan." And he walked out of the room.

Hardcastle took one more sip from his coffee, grabbed the paper and pen, picked up the heavy book and followed him back to the den.

The kid had turned on the TV and just to be spiteful, he had cranked up the volume.

Milt shook his head from the entry way and continued inside. He went over to the TV and shut it off.

"Hey, I was watching that." McCormick said.

"I think you're a little old for cartoons kiddo," he muttered. "CARTOONS??" was all that Milt wrote out, followed by the question marks.

"It's all that's on Saturday morning." He added a terse, "Leave me alone."

Hardcastle shook his head no. He sat down across from him and wrote out a long note. McCormick sat by idly, looking more than a bit irritated. Finally finishing up his thought, he held up his right hand, got McCormick's undivided attention and began to sign something.

"That's cute, Judge. Should I shut the curtains, turn on a light and you can make shadow puppets on the wall for me too? I'm NOT INTERESTED!" He almost yelled.

Hardcastle was not amused. He didn't bother to write anything short and terse, he merely signed the same thing again and handed the note over to him and left the room.

_The book belonged to Nancy. The Buchanan's gave it to her. They had a little boy named Alex who was deaf. When they moved into the neighborhood, all the kids would get together and play, but none of them could 'talk' to Alex. Some of the moms decided to learn ASL and teach the kids. What I just signed for you was 'Tommy.' He was about five or six at the time, just a little guy and to him it was like knowing another language, he ate it up and he made a lifelong friend in the process. That was the first thing she taught him, how to spell his name. He was so excited, he kept on signing it all night long. And he taught it to me. I was surprised I remembered it after all these years_.

_You don't have to be deaf for it to work, Mark. You just have to want to care about people._

McCormick sat there and reread the note over and over again and then he reluctantly picked up the book and looked up one word. Back into the kitchen he went. Hardcastle was cleaning up the kitchen. Mark cleared his throat and got his attention. Then he took his right hand and made a circular motion over his heart and softly said. "Sorry."

Milt mustered up a smile and gave him an understanding nod.

_**Chapter 17**_

Despite the fact it was getting late, Frank Harper poured himself another cup of coffee. He was so caffeinated at the moment, he wasn't planning on sleeping for the next two days. He wasn't getting any further looking into the warehouse or files on Kerns, and he did have his own police work to do. He opened another file. Anthony Anderson was a two-bit punk who had been in and out of the system since he was a kid. He'd been arrested that morning making a buy from a drug dealer. He had a wad of cash on him, and he was looking to do some big business for himself. Oddly enough, Anderson wasn't into drug dealing. He was into small stuff – some shoplifting, some fencing, ratting out people for the right price – so the question of where he got the money was on the arresting officer's mind. He had to have ratted out someone pretty important to have that much cash on him.

He put Anthony Anderson's file to the side and opened Timothy Kerns' file again. All they needed was one little break, something else other than what they had. The bullets in the VCR hadn't been enough to get a warrant to search everything belonging to Kerns, but Frank was able to get a limited warrant. He hadn't actually expected that the police would find anything at Kerns' house. He'd have been too smart to leave incriminating evidence there, and since the warehouse belonged to a government contractor, getting a warrant to look in a few more of their warehouses wasn't going to happen since they weren't responsible for what Kerns was shipping in and out of them – he was just the leasee, after all. The only warrant Frank could get was for Kerns' bank accounts, and that proved to be a mish-mash of jumbled paperwork and red tape that was going to take a few days to get through. By then, it could all be too late.

Frank had a bad feeling, and he learned a long time ago to listen to those bad feelings.

Looking down at some of the information in Kerns' file, Frank noticed the name "Toby Anderson."

He looked back up at the other file on his desk: Anthony Anderson.

Same last name…coincidence?

OOOOO

Things had settled down a bit after that morning's 'misunderstanding.' Milt couldn't blame Mark for jumping to conclusions. The guy was frustrated enough as it was, and then to see a book on sign language sitting on the desk? Was it any wonder he got a bit antsy? What else could he think but that the judge knew something he didn't?

Mark must have also seen it as a sign that Milt didn't have any hope that his hearing would come back. If Mark himself was having doubts, then the last thing he needed was to think that Milt had them as well. Maybe he needed the judge to believe that everything was going to turn out all right? What was going on in Mark's head? Whatever it was, he wasn't sharing it.

Milt wasn't entirely forthcoming either. His first and foremost thoughts were regarding Mark's health -- that went without saying. He felt utterly responsible for the entire situation and he'd do everything in his power to stand by McCormick in any and every way possible. Whether that meant surgery or whatever else he might need down the line. Selfishly, there was another side to things. Permanent deafness most likely meant the end of the crime busting or at the very least a drastic change. He hoped it didn't mean the end of their friendship, too. Milt recalled how the older Alex Buchanan got, the more he withdrew from the hearing world and into the deaf world. He ended up going to a school for the hearing impaired and then onto a similar college. He had no idea where he was at today. Milt didn't want that to happen to him and Mark, the withdrawing part. He knew it wouldn't much matter what he wanted, rather what Mark would want. He couldn't help but let it bother him.

Not long after they worked through the misunderstanding, Milt looked into the den and saw Mark flipping through the ASL book. He wasn't looking at the page for the alphabet. Instead, he was looking at the signs for certain nouns and repeating the motions. One in particular had him somewhat amused.

Mark looked up and saw the judge standing there. "Hey, Judge, this one should come in useful. Should make Frank happy." He took his first two fingers and tapped them together against his thumb twice. "That means duck. That's one we need to know."

Milt laughed but he could see tension in Mark's movements. The kid was slowly becoming a powder keg ready to blow, and Milt honestly didn't know what to do or how to help him. He kept hoping for some sudden insight or inspiration.

OOOOO

Ray Katz wasn't the type to have a 'permanent' home address. He liked to move around a lot. For someone in his line of work, it was a good idea to make it as difficult as possible for the police to track him. That didn't mean he couldn't be contacted by the "right" people. It had taken Kerns a full day to track him down and offer him the job, and then it had taken Ray a day to get back to the west coast.

Kerns promised Ray that if he could manage to 'complete' the job, he'd elevate him within the organization, put him in a position to get better jobs than he'd been getting recently. He kept the buttering-up going by telling him what a great marksman he was, which Ray already knew, but a promotion and big, fat, quick payoff along with climbing the company ladder -- who the hell could pass that up?

The setup had already been made. Two guys living out on the PCH in some la-dee-da fancy estate. One of the guys, someone named McCormick, was deaf and the other one was some old guy. He told Kerns that was all he needed and wanted to know. It took a few minutes to screw together the professional sniper weapon, including the zoom sight, but now he was ready to go.

He gazed through the rifle sight. The view was of an empty den and an unoccupied couch. He saw movement as shadows passed by other windows, but no target for him to lock onto.

"Come on, boys. What else can an old guy and a deaf guy do in the evening but sit around?" He murmured as he focused on the room

He waited.

He saw the younger man enter the room and sit down, pick up the remote and turn on the television. "There we go. Welcome to the party, McCormick." There was still no sign of the older man. "Now let's see the geezer come a-rambling in. You fellas won't know what hit you once Ray Katz lets it fly."

He waited again.

_**Chapter 18**_

There was something rather eerie watching a television without the sound on. Mark didn't know the sound was muted though. It didn't really matter, Milt thought to himself as he walked into the den with a big bowl of popcorn. He'd seen _Rooster Cogburn_ enough times to quote the dialogue. Still, to not hear Katherine Hepburn get the best of John Wayne… oh, well, Milt wouldn't turn the sound up. That wasn't what the kid needed to see – that the sound had been turned down and the judge turned it up so _he_ could _hear_ it.

The judge sat down on the couch and put the bowl of popcorn between them. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Mark grabbed a handful and threw the kernels into his mouth one at a time. It seemed like any other time they'd watched a movie together. He caught himself a few times just about ready to make a comment to the kid, only to internally remind himself that unless he had the kid's direct attention, it would be futile. He let out a few deep sighs on the side of regret about the whole situation. For a change, McCormick seemed content just to be relaxing at home. Sort of. After the blow up that morning, it was as though Mark hadn't really accepted their temporary situation but was trying to make the best of it. Maybe finding the book was some sort of catharsis, but whatever it was, he seemed a bit calmer than before. Every day, they'd gone through the motions of a 'normal' day. Wake up, eat breakfast, keep busy, eat lunch, keep busy, eat supper, watch TV, then back to bed. The only difference was the air of expectation surrounding them. Maybe they were both hoping for a sudden miracle which would really make things the way they used to be and until then, they were just going to have to go through the motions of what used to be normal for them or maybe this was the so-called calm before the storm.

OOOOO

The older man still wasn't in plain view. "Damnit, you old fart, you're only making this harder on yourself," Katz said. The gunman kept careful watch through the sight. He had a clear shot at the younger man, but his orders were simple – kill the older guy first when the younger guy couldn't hear the shot, giving him the best shot at pelting both of them without much fuss.

He waited.

OOOOO

They'd reached the scene where Rooster and Wolf had brought back some meat for supper and found out that Miss Goodnight had already got a stew started. Her idea? Put their meat in with hers and they'd have wilderness stew – talk about teamwork. At that moment, the phone rang. Milt walked over to the desk and picked up the handset.

OOOOO

"Come on, sit down, Pops," the gunman said aloud. The old guy would be right in his cross hairs if he would just sit at the desk instead of standing beside it. The younger guy wouldn't see the older one fall. Nothing could be more perfect. Katz felt his finger gently massage the trigger. "That's it, gramps. Come to old Ray Katz."

OOOOO

"Hello?"

"_Milt, it's Frank."_

Mark looked over at the judge, and Hardcastle mouthed the words 'Frank.' "Hey, Frank. What's up?"

"_Maybe something. How are you guys doing?"_

"Pretty good. Watching a western. It's a change. We've been watching the baseball games since we came home. Mark doesn't need to hear the sound to know who's scoring."

"_Baseball games, huh? Sounds good. Hey, do you have Kerns' file in front of you?"_

Milt sat down at his desk, bent down, opened the lower drawer and pulled out the file that started the whole mess. "Yeah, got it right here. What do you need?"

"_I want to double-check known accomplices and associates again and see if we have a little different information. Do you have an Anthony Anderson or a Toby Anderson listed in yours?"_

OOOOO

The gunman had a perfect view of the older guy…. Just sit up straight, old man…

OOOOO

Milt sat up and began turning the pages. "Anthony Anderson, aka Toby Anderson. He's listed here as someone who's worked with Kerns. Got an idea about what he's gonna do next?"

"_Maybe. We've got an Anthony Anderson in the jail, but his file doesn't list an alias of 'Toby.' In the meantime, I'm gonna try to go at this from a different angle myself."_

Milt dropped a loose page on the floor, bent down to pick it up, "Hang on a second, Frank," The bullet crashed through the window and into the back of the chair where he'd been sitting – right where his head had been!

"_Milt?_" Frank had heard the shot and identified it as gunfire right away.

Hardcastle stayed close to the floor. He dropped the rest of the file and started crawling over to Mark. "We're being shot at! McCormick!" He carried the phone as far as he could as he scrambled away from the desk and kept yelling, not bothering to realize that yelling wasn't doing a thing. "Damn it!" The kid couldn't hear him! He couldn't hear the gunfire! He was just sitting there! "Frank, send backup!" he yelled just a few feet from the phone handset. "We're sitting ducks in here."

He dropped the phone although he could hear Frank's voice calling out for someone to get the patrol car back to Gulls Way. Milt crawled toward the couch just as another shot rang out, hitting the cushion right beside Mark. That got Mark's attention, but everything was happening so fast, that he didn't realize immediately what it was.

Just then, Milt reached up with his massive arms and aggressively latched onto Mark's arm's and yanked him to the floor. He pointed to the window where two bullet holes now were. He then pointed to the couch and the chair. Mark popped his head up to see, as Hardcastle again roughly pulled him back down. "STAY PUT!" He shouted at Mark. There was no paper or pen in sight. He had to count on the kid reading his lips. They were sitting ducks!

"Staple?" Mark said. "What's going on?"

Milt lifted up his hand and made a gun. "SOMEONE'S SHOOTING AT US." He used his index finger to point back and forth between the two of them.

"Who?"

"HOW THE HELL WOULD I KNOW WHO?"

McCormick saw the anger and frustration building in Hardcastle.

"The warehouse guys?"

"GOOD GUESS."

"I know it's a mess, but is it those guys?"

This was killing Milt. He couldn't try to keep them safe and manage to translate every word for McCormick along the way. Where was the notepad? He looked around – it was on the floor across the room. How did it get there? Something had to give. Right now, he knew he had to protect Mark and hope that the cops would come along and nail the sniper.

He gave McCormick an affirmative nod and a grimace, and they waited it out together, huddled on the floor.

OOOOO

The gunman cursed. He'd lost the element of surprise. He aimed again…

OOOOO

The bullet flew just over their heads and slammed into the wall. The pictures shook and fell off their nails, crashing to the ground.

Mark tried to see where the shots were coming from and saw the flash of the gun as the next round was fired. "Behind the seawall," he told Hardcastle.

"GET DOWN AND STAY DOWN." Milt said, repeating it so that Mark would understand.

Milt crawled over to the gun cabinet, "This is ridiculous, just sitting here," and opened it up and pulled out his shotgun. Who knew how long this idiot would keep firing at them. He sure wasn't going to wait until it was too late.

Mark saw him mutter something – "Judge, you're not going out there!" And he crawled over to confront him.

The judge pointed to Mark, then pointed to the ground. He pointed to himself, then made the motion of two of his fingers walking. Then he made his hand look like a gun.

Mark grabbed the shotgun. "He's got a high-powered rifle! You'll be picked off before you get three feet out the door."

He saw Hardcastle tilt his head… what was he hearing? Then he saw the judge mouth the words "Good guys." Frank must have got the cops there and the judge heard the sirens. They stayed down until Milt motioned that they could stand up. From the den, Mark looked out toward the seawall and saw the police had shot the gunman. He hadn't heard any of the rounds being fired from either side.

While the judge moved to the window to get a better view, Mark looked around the room. The chair, the couch, the wall – the bad guy had shot into the house, and he hadn't heard a single noise. After he had scanned the contents, he slowly walked to each spot to touch and feel the damage that had been done. It wasn't till he went right up to the window where Milt was that Hardcastle realized what he was doing. Milt noticed he seemed transfixed on touching every single spot, memorizing it and trying to understand what had just happened. He was in his own world and the judge had no clue how or even if he should try to reach him.

McCormick didn't realize what he was doing. Somehow it seemed it was natural, second nature and he wasn't even thinking, he was just doing. As he went around the room, he could only remember that he and the judge got shot at a lot in their line of work. This time was no different than the others, but it was entirely more unusual than any other time before. Reality began to set in. What kind of a Tonto would he be if he didn't get his hearing back? How could he guard Hardcastle's back if he couldn't hear when someone was trying to kill them?

What use would he be to the judge then?

OOOOO

"Judge Hardcastle?" One of the policemen called out as he rushed into the house. "Sir?"

"We're here," Milt called out. The judge turned and saw that Mark was still looking at the bullet holes. He could only guess what was going through his friend's mind, but he was pretty sure he'd be close to right.

The officer came into the den in a hurry, gun at the ready. "You two all right?"

"Yeah, we're fine. What about the sniper?"

"He's wounded but alive. We've called the ambulance. Lieutenant Harper is still on your phone, sir. He radioed me to tell you he wanted you to ahem pick the damn thing up. Sir."

Milt almost smiled as he finally heard Frank's voice calling him over the handset. He rushed over and picked it up. "Frank?"

"_Milt? What the hell is going on over there? Are you two all right? I heard the shots."_

"Yeah, we're fine." Milt looked over at Mark. "Well, no more injuries to report anyway." McCormick had gone back to sit down in the chair, his gaze meandering around the room, studying everything, focusing on the bullet holes. The police officer stood in the doorway, gun pointed down as he stood guard on the two men. "The den is a bit of a mess, but there's no blood on the floor."

"_Okay, this means I can get you official protection_." Frank's voice didn't leave any room for argument; he would get them official protection. "_Is there an officer in there with you now_?"

Milt motioned the police officer over and handed him the phone while he went to check on Mark. He sat down across from him and pulled out the pad from the floor where it had fallen during the melee.

"YOU OKAY?"

Mark nodded his head. "I didn't hear any of it," he mumbled low, but Milt heard it nonetheless. "Not a sound, vibration, nothing."

Milt wrote another note and handed it to Mark. "FRANK'S SENDING POLICE TO WATCH US FULL TIME."

"So what? Judge, do you realize how fast that happened? What if they had killed you? There's no way I would have known."

"DIDN'T HAPPEN."

"Is that supposed to make either one of us feel better?"

"IDEAS?" The judge was willing to hear what McCormick thought. Maybe giving him some chance to input ideas would help. Milt was almost willing to go into protective custody or to a safe house, but there was something that felt 'wrong' about that idea. Yes, it would be safer for them, but he almost believed that it would hurt the kid to that more than staying at the estate would. Milt couldn't quite put his finger on it. Ordinarily, the idea wouldn't even enter his head. Normally, they stayed at the estate with the police as guards when they've been in similar circumstances before. Why do something different just because…

McCormick got up and walked slowly over to the desk chair and stuck his finger into the hole where the bullet had hit. He closed his eyes. He had a lot of ideas for Milt, but nothing he could or wanted to say out loud, not yet anyway.

OOOOO

Kerns waited by the phone. Still no phone call. Where was he? How long does it take to shoot a retired judge and an ex-con?

OOOOO

It was close to 10:00 p.m. by the time most of the excitement was over with and Frank finally went into the house. Milt and Mark were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Probably neither one wanted to sleep. The police officer was standing guard at the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand as well. That was good. The caffeine would keep him awake.

"Hey, Frank," Milt greeted him. "Coffee?"

"No, thanks. I wouldn't get any sleep if I drank anymore this late." Then, to the officer, "I need to talk to the Judge and McCormick alone, Officer. Would you mind?"

The officer put down his coffee mug and said, "I'll be right outside, sir," as he went out the door.

"Well?" Milt asked.

"We've I.D'd the gunman as a hit man named Ray Katz. He's probably going to live, but he's not talking yet. I've got a couple of detectives sitting at the hospital waiting for him to arrive."

Frank noticed that Milt wrote down an abbreviated version of the tale and handed the paper to Mark. The young man seemed a little more down than he was the last time Frank saw him.

"Think he works for Kerns?" the judge asked.

"I wouldn't doubt it, but right now it's the 64,000 dollar question."

Again, more scribbling.

"And he knows where Mark is," Milt concluded. "He's coming after him."

"And probably you, too." Harper reminded him.

Milt's penmanship was still bad, but his writing speed had picked up. He was writing the notes quickly.

Mark sighed loudly, at least, to Frank it was loud and he turned away from the two of them. Mark probably didn't realize that it was. Frank knocked on the table and got Mark's attention. "You okay?"

Mark nodded his head. "Yeah. Just hasn't been a good night. And they interrupted Rooster Cogburn. I think Hardcase considers that a federal offense. Everyone knows you don't mess with a Judge who likes John Wayne."

Harper politely chuckled. At least his sense of humor was still working.

"I'm gonna make a sandwich. Either of you want one?" Both men shook their heads and Mark headed toward the refrigerator.

"How is he really, Milt?"

"Not good. I think it really hit him, that he can't hear. I mean, he knew he couldn't but I think this made him really see what it was he wasn't hearing, you know?" Hardcastle glanced at Mark. "Someone's after us, and Mark can't hear when they're coming or when they're shooting at us. He could have been killed tonight just because he couldn't hear the gun or the window getting smashed or the pictures falling off the walls. He's thinking that I could have been killed, and he wouldn't have known it. Seeing him just sit there like that with the bullets flying -- it scared the hell out of me, Frank, even more than the damn explosion."

What could Frank say to that? "Okay, I've got police stationed here. I'm looking more into Kerns' dealings and tomorrow, you and I will need to compare notes about more of his accomplices and associates. Maybe we can track his movements through them. We're running Anthony Anderson's prints to prove if he and Toby Anderson are the same. We'll look into Katz's background, see what the link is…"

Milt looked over at Mark who was not hearing a single word they said. "Later," Milt said.

Frank nodded his head. "He'll be okay, eventually. Keep thinking that."

"Frank, you have no idea what this is doing to him. First going deaf, then having to learn to deal with it whether it's temporary or not, and top it off with God knows who or what out to finish him off. If he was having to deal with one thing at a time… but it's all happening at once. He can't deal with one problem while the other one is crashing in on him. I think we need to pull out of this. I need to get him out of here so he doesn't have to worry about someone trying to shoot him, maybe get him some help. If I don't, he could get killed."

They were so involved in their conversation that they hadn't realized that Mark had turned around and was focused on trying to read Hardcastle's lips. "You're talking about me?"

Hardcastle's head snapped to attention. "No," he shook his head. "The case."

McCormick didn't agree and he shook his head in disgust. "Maybe so, but I know I'm in your discussion too. It's all over your faces. I'd love to play you two in poker right now. You can't lie worth shit. I know I'm a huge liability here, but say it to my face, will ya?" Neither Frank nor Milt replied. McCormick sneered at the two of them, he'd had enough, "I'm going out back by the pool."

"See what I mean?" Milt said to Frank. "We're going to drive each other nuts unless we figure something out here."

"I'll go talk to him. You don't make any rash decisions just yet." Harper stood up and grabbed the paper and headed out back.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 19**_

Harper walked onto the patio, thumbed the officer back in the house and saw Mark sitting in a chair eating his sandwich. He put a smile on his face and went over and literally knocked on the back of McCormick's head. The playful gesture could only belong to Frank Harper.

Mark let his head flop forward. He instantly could tell the difference between Milt and Frank. "Hi, Frank," he said, without seeing him. "Hardcase sent you out, huh? What, thinks you can talk some sense into me? Or better yet, get me my hearing back?"

Frank came around and plopped himself in the patio chair across from him. He overly-exaggerated pulling out the paper and pen.

"Oh, great, another author," McCormick lamented.

"HELL NO MILT DIDN'T SEND ME. IT'S COOLER OUT HERE."

"Nice try, Frank, but at least you write more legibly than he does. Did you guys notice that we had an audience?"

Frank looked around and saw the next door neighbors, the Drinkwaters, standing in their back yard watching Gulls Way through binoculars.

"I think we give them a lot of entertainment," McCormick mumbled as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Harper went back to writing. "YOU DO KNOW THAT IT'S NOT SAFE OUT HERE, RIGHT? YOU JUST HAD A SNIPER SHOOT AT YOU. AS FOR EVERYTHING ELSE, YOU BOTH HAVE TO WORK THROUGH THIS." He took the pad and slapped Mark's leg to get him to read.

"I know, Frank, and I know he knows that too. It's just frustrating. Usually we can, we do it all the time for cases. I do my thing, he does his," he tried to explain. "We always figure some way to make things work, but this time, I don't know. This is different because this is something we haven't had to deal with before. Neither one of us knows what to do."

"YOU'RE WRONG MARK, YOU'RE BOTH SMART GUYS. I TOLD HIM THE SAME THING I'M TELLING YOU, GIVE IT TIME."

"With people shooting at us? I don't think we've got the time."

"WANT TO GO OUT AND GRAB A BEER? I'LL EVEN PLAY YOU A FEW GAMES OF CRIBBAGE, AND THERE'S AN EAST COAST BASEBALL GAME ON TONIGHT." Frank remembered Hardcastle telling him that was the one thing that Mark seemed to like to do. He didn't need sound to enjoy a game. There was his offer, maybe the kid needed to get out, too? He'd be safe enough with a police lieutenant and couple of police officers who might like to watch a ball game on the television at a different location?

"I'd like to, but after what just happened here tonight, I better stay put, there's no telling when whoever is going to try something like this again. I may not be much help, but I should be here with him. Besides, isn't it easier to keep an eye on us here than if we're going off someplace? But thanks for asking. Besides, I wipe the floor with you when I play you in cribbage," he joked.

"AND I'M THE ONE THAT TAUGHT YOU THAT GAME." Frank laughed as he wrote the note. "YOU'D THINK I COULD PLAY IT BETTER AFTER ALL THE YEARS I'VE PLAYED IT WHEN I'M ON A STAKEOUT."

"Just keep practicing," Mark suggested.

Harper put the writing pad back in his pocket. He gave him a wave and a thumbs up.

"See ya, Frank."

OOOOO

Around midnight, Milt heard the back door open and Mark's footfalls echo through the kitchen. He mused about a conversation he had with Nancy years ago about how she knew who was walking where just by the sound of their footsteps. Tommy's was lighter and quicker, Milt's was slower and a little more plodding. Milt had never paid attention to things like that until Mark came to live at the estate. He was never quiet. Doors slammed open, his voice yelling "Judge!" when he came in, and he had a very swift, clear footstep.

He wasn't the only one who yelled though. They both seemed to enjoy taking their voices to a new decibel level when the opportunity presented itself. Maybe that's what Milt was missing the most right now, the regular honest-to-goodness verbal conversations they had. It wasn't the same just writing things down. Milt blew a frustrated breath. There he was being selfish again. He needed to stop that. It wasn't about him, it was about McCormick. If they just had the time to deal with one problem before another crept up...

This time, the footstep that Milt heard wasn't swift and clear. Instead, it was slow and dragging. Then he heard it stop at the doorway to the den. He turned around and saw Mark looking at something on the floor. It was the sign language book. Mark picked it up and poked his finger through a bullet hole in the upper corner and waved it at the judge.

"Think someone's trying to tell us something?"

Milt nodded his head and said, "Yep."

"Milt, I've been thinking," Mark came over and set the book on the end table and sat in one of the leather chairs.

"SHOOT KIDDO," Milt jotted down

"Well, just hear me out on this one, and let me finish what I have to say." He looked to see the Judge give him a nod of understanding. "I think maybe I should leave. I'm sure the cops will put me up in a house or hotel or something until they catch this guy. We both know they're after me anyway. They know I was in the warehouse, obviously they know where I am and…" he suddenly stopped talking.

"WHAT?"

"And I don't want anything to happen to you because of me."

Milt stood up and took a deep breath and took a seat over on the couch. Mark waited for him to write something and nothing ever came.

"Did you hear what I said?" Mark asked him. "I think I should leave."

Milt finally grabbed the paper and pen, "NO, YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE, WE'RE IN THIS THING TOGETHER. I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU AND YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT ME AND THE BEST WAY TO GET OVER IT IS TO FIGURE IT OUT TOGETHER. YOU'RE STAYING PUT, DO YOU HEAR ME?"

"Um, actually no I don't," Mark amusedly answered.

"DON'T BE A WISEGUY."

The topic got dropped in a hurry.

OOOOO

For the first time in a long time, Milt Hardcastle slept late.

Not just_ late_ late, but 9:00 in the morning late. Drinking all that caffeine and not nodding off until about 3:00 in the morning plus all the excitement of the shooting – yeah, no wonder he slept a little later.

He pulled himself out of bed and trudged down the hallway. He looked in on Mark – he wasn't in the guest room. Milt almost yelled out for him, but stopped himself. Yelling just wouldn't have done any good except maybe cause the police to run in with weapons at the ready.

The smell of fresh coffee reached him and he made his way to the kitchen. It looked like Mark had gotten up earlier and made breakfast. There was some bacon wrapped up in cling wrap on the counter. Milt glanced in the refrigerator – the whole package of bacon was missing along with half of the eggs. Mark must have made some breakfast for the police guarding them as well. There were fresh coffee grounds in the trash can and a fresh pot was percolating. He must have offered them coffee as well and then made more for the judge. A quick glance out the window showed that a police car was parked on the other side of the street with a good view of the house. One police officer was standing just outside the door drinking a cup of coffee. Another was stationed outside the gatehouse. That must have been where Mark went. That made sense. The gatehouse was "his" house as far as Mark was concerned. His stuff, his space, his comfort zone. Heck, it was his shower too. He needed a little time alone.

Milt glanced at the dirty dishes in the sink. He might as well mess up a few more dishes and make himself a little breakfast. Not so surprising, he was actually hungry.

OOOOO

Mark had intended to get back to the main house before the judge woke up. He just wanted to get back into his house for few minutes, get in his own shower, check on a few things that he had left undone without interruption; that was all. He found once he got started, he lost track of the time. He had a mantle clock that chimed on the quarter hours, but he soon realized that didn't hear it. He had grown so accustomed to it chiming, that he didn't give it a second thought. He forgot about the clock unless it started running down and he needed to wind it again. He could always tell when it was time because the chime would start sounding rather sad. He didn't realize he hadn't noted the passing of time until he looked at his watch and saw that he'd been at the gatehouse for over an hour and a half. That meant that Hardcastle was most likely awake and roaming around the house.

Between the judge and the police, Mark felt like his every move was being watched. Technically, it was but it was the idea that they _had_ to have guards at the estate and have every move watched that bothered him the most. He was temporarily deaf, not incapacitated. He shouldn't have to have guards, right?

Just because he couldn't hear those gunshots the night before….

The reality of the situation just made him angrier.

He had to hold it together just a little longer. He could do that. Just maybe six more weeks of the utter and impenetrable silence and it could all just go away and things would be back to normal. If his hearing didn't come back on its own, there was always the surgery. Two chances to get it back. He could do this.

He just had to deal with it better.

He was about to go back to the main house when some paperwork caught his eye…

Paperwork…

Paperwork… what was it about paperwork… there was something tugging at his memory…what was it?

He walked over to the desk to straighten up the scattered bits and realized it was the listing of night courses at the college. He'd completely forgotten about it. How could he go to night school? How could he go to law school? He couldn't hear the teachers. What if he did manage to get through school, how would going to court work? Could he be a trial attorney without being able to hear the witnesses, the judge, the opposing counsel? And if he had someone performing sign language in the court room…

Enough, he was still getting ahead of himself. One day at a time. That's how he was supposed to deal with everything. If everything was temporary, then he could go on as he had planned. If it was permanent, then he'd find a way around it. He'd just have to wait a little while, see how things turned out.

_**Chapter 20**_

Katz had failed?

Kerns couldn't fathom that possibility. He'd always been a good hit man before. How could have failed on such easy targets?

His telephone rang, and he picked it up immediately.

"Hello?"

"_Mister Kerns, I believe you have something to tell me?"_

Damn! It was one of his partners. "I dispatched Ray Katz to deal with our problems. Unfortunately, the police shot him. One of my contacts on the street just found out and phoned me."

"_This is a most unfortunate turn of events. I'm sure you realize exactly how unfortunate for you."_

"The situation is being dealt with. I can promise you that."

"_We believe that a more direct approach is now necessary. You will not utilize any more of our resources to deal with this problem. You will deal with it yourself. Is that clear?"_

There was no need for the voice to threaten him. Kerns knew exactly how bad things could get and how quick they could get there. "I understand. I'll use my own resources."

"_See that you do,"_ and the line went dead.

Hardcastle had put him in the position he now found himself, and that ex-con… Kerns wanted revenge. Not only that, he wanted Hardcastle to know exactly why his pet project was going to die. He should have left well enough alone and kept his nose out of other people's business.

Kerns decided to leave the Judge a message. Easy enough to deliver… he'd just leave it where Hardcastle wouldn't fail to find it.

OOOOO

11:30 a.m., and Milt finally came out of the house carrying Kerns' file. He was beginning to feel a bit cramped in his own home. Maybe they needed a change of scene? Isn't that what Frank had tried to do the night before? Maybe he had the right idea. He waved at the policeman standing there, and saw the other guard sitting in the shade of the picnic table's umbrella. Mark had spent some time working on the old lawnmower's engine outside the gatehouse, but now was keeping busy by reading through the ASL book and learning different signs when Milt walked over to him and handed him a note that read. "LEI'S CEI QUI QF HERE & CEI SQME LUMGH"

Mark closed up the book and handed it to Hardcastle. "I think you need to learn this quicker than I do. Look at what you just wrote and try to read it out loud."

Milt easily read whatever it was that he was trying to say. Mark strained to understand what his lips were saying.

"Okay, wait, that's not fair either. Here, let me read it out loud to, 'cause this is what I read, _Lei's cet qui qf here & cei sqme lumgh_. I don't know, French maybe? Portuguese? Try it again, only this time in English please." He shoved the paper back against the Judge's chest.

"LET'S GET SOME LUNCH. GO OUT, GET OUT OF HOUSE." This time he wrote much more clearly and concise.

McCormick perked up. "Really? Out of the house? Are you sure?"

Milt nodded. "YEAH I'M SURE. WE'LL TAKE THE POLICEMEN WITH US, THEN WE'LL STOP AND SEE FRANK TOO. NEED TO TALK ABOUT BAD GUYS." He took his two fingers and 'tossed it up.'

"What are we waiting for? Let's go."

Yeah. He needed to get out for a little while. This was a good idea.

OOOOO

Barney's Beanery was packed to the rafters. Someone had one of the rooms rented for a very special reception and the party was loud, lovingly boisterous and overflowing with people laughing and celebrating the many accomplishments of someone very exceptional. The tribute was bound to last all day and night.

The noise didn't bother McCormick in the slightest. He almost wished he was in the midst of the party. They, however, opted for one of the dining areas. With the place so loud, he could feel and sense the vibrations and feel the loud music and animated crowd sounds and for him it brought him back into the hearing world, if only for a short time and in a minute way.

For Hardcastle, it was the beginning of a dull headache. He'd put up with it though. It was nice to see a smile on the kid's face for a change. One police officer sat nearby, the other sat across the room for maximum view of the place. Hardcastle had told them to order whatever they wanted, he'd pay and there would be no argument. The judge ordered their lunch and busily chatted with Mark with the latter speaking a little on the loud side, and the Judge writing notes as fast as he could keep up with him.

A middle-aged couple stopped by their table and the gentleman began to speak to Hardcastle.

"Excuse me, I hope I'm not disturbing you. I couldn't help but notice that the young man can't hear," he spoke slowly. "My name is Cliff Dorger. I'm deaf as well. I saw you writing notes to him, and it reminded me of what we went through when I lost my hearing fifteen years ago. Is this something that just happened recently?"

Mark sat by curiously, wondering what was going on. Milt began to write another note. Cliff put his hand out and stopped him. "I can read lips, as long as you speak directly to me."

Milt nodded. "Yeah, it's been a couple of weeks. He was in an explosion, had a concussion. The doctors say it's temporary."

Cliff understood right away. "Conductive deafness huh? Me too. I was in Vietnam, grenade exploded, set off a landmine not far from me, knocked me out and I woke up deaf. Same diagnosis. When I noticed how the two of you were communicating, it brought back a lot of memories."

Mark had enough of being left out of the conversation. "Judge, what's up?"

Milt wrote down the introduction and told Mark that Cliff was also deaf.

"How?" Mark sat up and wanted to know more.

Milt jotted down, "SAME DIAGNOSIS."

Mark asked, "How long until you get it back?"

Cliff read Mark's lips easily and answered Milt. "Tell him my deafness was permanent."

Hardcastle paused and couldn't bring himself to write it down.

"Please, tell him. I know sometimes people with this particular diagnosis can have their hearing return on its own or they have an operation to repair it. All the doctors told me the surgery would be a success, and that I had nothing to worry about. I'd hear again. I had the surgery, and it didn't help. It's better if he knows now that there might not be a quick fix. If it is permanent, there's a lot he can do, learn to read lips, sign language, live a normal life, there are many career choices. Either way he'll be fine, but he should know not to get his hopes up."

"I don't know if I can tell him that," Milt said. "It hasn't been that long. We just don't know yet."

"I had my hopes up for three long months, and in some strange way, I still do to this day, sir. I only wish now that someone might have told me after a week instead of leading me on with false hopes. Again, I'm sorry to interrupt, and I didn't mean to intrude." He pulled out his card and handed it to Milt. Cliff Dorger was a tax attorney. "If either of you would like to talk more, please give me a call. Given my situation, my law firm lets me handle cases for deaf clients. We talk a lot since we have that in common. I've seen and heard it all, so to speak." With that, he and the lady he was with walked away.

McCormick waited impatiently. "What did he say Judge?

"HE'S A TAX ATTORNEY. HIS FIRM LETS HIM HANDLE A LOT OF DEAF CLIENTS. HE SAW ME WRITING NOTES AND HE WAS CURIOUS. WONDERED WHAT HAPPENED."

A deaf attorney? But a tax attorney, not a trial lawyer. McCormick watched the judge suspiciously. "That isn't at all what he said, Judge. Why won't you tell me? You said he had the same diagnosis, but he's permanently deaf isn't he?"

Hardcastle knew that McCormick was sharp, but he didn't think he'd figure it out this quick. He didn't respond.

"That's it, isn't it? You don't want to tell me that his is permanent."

'HIS HEARING LOSS HAPPENED 15 YEARS AGO IN 'NAM. MEDICINE HAS CHANGED."

"So I am right." Mark pushed his plate of half-eaten food away. "Let's go home, I'm not hungry any more."

Milt reluctantly paid the bill, motioned for the police officers to follow them and they headed outside to the truck.

"Judge, what else did he say to you? And please be honest."

Milt put the paper on the hood of the truck and began to write. "DOCTORS TOLD HIM HE'D HEAR AGAIN, DIDN'T TELL HIM THERE WAS A CHANCE HE WOULDN'T. HE SAID IT WAS BETTER FOR YOU TO KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT HAVE TO FACE UP FRONT IN CASE IT'S NOT TERMPORARY. YOU STILL HAVE A LOT OF LIFE LEFT TO LIVE AND ALL THAT SORT OF THING. LOOK AT HIM, HE READS LIPS, KNOWS HOW TO SIGN AND HE'S AN ATTORNEY."

Mark silently read the note and crumpled it in his hand. He got into the truck without speaking. As he sat down, he mumbled loud enough for the Judge to hear. "Big deal. He's still deaf."

Hardcastle was all for changing the subject. 'WE'LL TAKE A SPIN OVER TO SEE FRANK." He started up the truck just as he noticed a new cassette sitting part-way in his cassette player. He had locked the doors, and there was no sign of someone jacking the locks... he reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a pencil. He used the eraser end to push the cassette into the player.

"Can we just go home, I'm not in the mood to see…"

McCormick voice was suddenly drowned out by the sound now booming throughout the cab.

"_Judge Hardcastle, hello. I hope you enjoyed lunch. I think your police escort did as well. You really must learn to guard your truck better. However, allow me to welcome you to your nightmare. I'm sure you're enjoying the sounds you're hearing. Too bad your pal isn't so fortunate. Poor Mr. McCormick, deaf as a doornail. It's your own fault too, sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Shame on you. You should have stayed retired, and he should have stayed in prison. The sniper incident was just the beginning. Before it's over, you'll both be dead_. _And don't bother checking, I didn't leave any fingerprints._"

Hardcastle didn't recognize the voice at all, but whoever it was, was in way too close of proximity to the two of them. They'd actually followed them right up to the restaurant, saw the police detail and had gone unnoticed. Worse than that, they'd gotten into his truck to put in the piece of garbage tape. The Judge was stunned.

"Judge, what? What is it?" McCormick knew something was going on. Hardcastle would either be driving or writing right now and instead he was fervently staring down his windshield. Mark glanced at the radio and saw that a cassette was playing and his hand went to eject it. The judge quickly reached over and blocked him.

"DON'T," The judge screamed at him. He pushed his hands away. Mark got the message right away.

"Is there something in there?"

The judge nodded affirmatively and jotted down. "EVIDENCE, DON'T TOUCH."

"What's it saying?"

"IT'S A TREAT."

"A treat?"

"THREAT, THREAT."

McCormick looked around the area. "That means they're watching us. They know exactly what we're up to."

"I KNOW. WE'RE GOING TO SEE FRANK."

_**Chapter 21**_

Mark watched as Frank, the judge and the police officers listened to the cassette, moved around the room, talked to each other. It was easy to tell Milt was angry. His face only turned that shade of red when he was grumpy and blustering and majorly ticked off about something. Frank was on the phone talking to someone, was giving orders to others – basically, he had gone into _policeman mode_. Whatever was on that cassette had them worried. Neither one looked at him, so for the moment, his involvement, focus or contribution in whatever danger was coming at them wasn't the topic of conversation. That was a good change.

Every now and then, he could make out a word or two by trying to read their lips. They were saying something about being followed, about being a target and having guards wasn't working. Obviously, someone had broken into the cab of the truck with no one noticing and left the cassette for Hardcase. Whatever was on the cassette, and no one had told Mark what it was yet, was upsetting. If their luck stayed true to form, it was the bad guy telling Milt exactly what he was going to do and who was going to die first.

Oh, joy.

Mark felt completely useless. Was anyone going to tell him exactly what was on that cassette at some point that afternoon?

He went and stood at the window of Frank's office and out at the rather busy police office. First it was over to the door, where Candace, the receptionist, was busy pounding away on a typewriter. He stared at her, willing himself to hear the sound. He knew it was there, every tap of the keys, every carriage return, even the tiny sound of the bell. He scanned away from her and saw two uniformed officers by the coffee maker. They were laughing about something and slapping each other on the back. Next he watched a guy in handcuffs get roughly hauled in through the swinging doors. He could recall the exact sound the slamming the doors made, he must have heard them dozens of times. The handcuffed guy was screaming and shouting something fierce, probably including obscenities since Candace stopped typing and shook her head at such vile language. The detective was all but ignoring the tirade as he forcibly set him in a chair.

After that, on the other side of the room, a man and woman were bickering among themselves as a overwrought detective was losing patience in trying to get some simple information from them.

And then there were the other desks, all full of activity, phones ringing, people talking, teletypes printing off reports from across the country, people moving freely about, bumping into each other and off of desks. Everything was normal and alive with sound. He remembered all of it, and it felt like he was hearing. He knew all those sounds. They were embedded clearly into his memory and how many times had he dismissed them for 'noise?' What he'd give for it now to have it all back. It was all achingly silent to him.

McCormick swallowed hard and began to feel like the room was suddenly closing in on him. He could feel his heart begin to race and sweat started to form on his hairline. Was he having some crazy sort of panic attack? Part of him wanted to run, part of him wanted to bash his head against the wall in an effort to open up the sense he had lost, not that it would do any good. It would only give him another concussion and another headache. He grabbed his head with his hands and rubbed at his face and then he tightly squeezed his eyes close, wanting to block it all out.

Frank noticed him first. "Milt, something's wrong over there." He pointed toward McCormick.

"What?" Milt turned to see McCormick with his back to him, clawing at his head. "Damn," he murmured. He cleared his throat, got up from the chair and walked over to him. As he got behind him, he hesitated before reaching out to him and turned to look back toward Frank to say something. "Maybe I shouldn't have brought him out, I don't know if he's ready for all this yet. Maybe it's too much?"

"Milt, he needed to get out of the house. He needs to learn that he's still alive and living in this world, and maybe he needs to deal with this thing head-on instead of you not letting him. Besides, I think he needs to be in on the case. Someone's trying to kill you guys. He's not going to just sit by and let that happen."

"Yeah, but look at him, Frank. It's killing him."

"So's being a prisoner. Milt, didn't you already learn that you couldn't lock him away forever?" He gave him a smile and waited a second for Milt to understand the deeper meaning. "If anyone can adapt, it's McCormick. He doesn't want to be protected, and he doesn't want to be a burden. He just wants to be himself. Right now, he needs to figure out how to do that given this latest situation. He's gotta learn, and you've got to let him have that chance." Frank paused, "Get him to sit over here. Let's get him up to speed."

Milt nodded and put his hand out to Mark's back. The kid was slightly startled but turned his head to see Milt gesturing for him to come back to the desk. Frank was busy writing down a note.

"QUIT DAYDREAMING ABOUT A DATE WITH CANDACE OUT THERE, WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE CASE. NEED YOUR INPUT."

Mark chuckled as he saw it, took a deep breath and went to sit down at the desk. For the time being, the utter helplessness had passed.

First, Mark got a transcript of the cassette to read, then a few notes from both Milt and Frank catching him up on some of the similar points they were looking for in the files like corresponding names. Then he saw Milt and Frank open up two file folders in particular – both had the name Kerns on the tab. No, scratch that – Milt's folder had the name KERNS. Frank's had the name KARNS. Wouldn't a defense attorney love to get a hold of that? Then there was a folder for a guy named Anthony Anderson. Who was he?

Something got their interest. There were some identical names in their files. Maybe they found something?

Frank called in an officer and spoke to him, he nodded his head and headed out of his office. While Frank talked to the other, Hardcastle pulled out his notepad again and started scribbling.

"GUY NAMED ANTHONY ANDERSON GOT BUSTED TRYING TO BUY DRAGS."

"Drags?" Mark asked, "He got busted for propositioning a hooker?"

"DRUGS, DRUGS, HOW'S THAT SMART ALECK?"

"Sorry. So go on."

"FRANK RAN HIS PRINTS. HE'S WORKED FOR KARNS BEFORE USING NAME TOBY ANDERSON. FRANK'S GOING TO INTERROGAT HIM."

Mark ignored the missing E in interrogate for now, but he didn't let the Kerns slip by without a remark. "It's Kerns, Judge. Okay, go interrogate him. What about Kerns?"

"SINCE KARNS DIDN'T DIE IN FIRE, ANDERSON MAY KNOW WHERE HE IS."

Mark read the note more than once. "Kerns is big time. You think you're gonna get Anderson to roll on him?"

Milt and Frank had been so engrossed in looking at the proof that made _Anthony_ Anderson into _Toby_ Anderson, they hadn't considered the obvious.

This time, Frank took the pen and pad and scribbled out a note. "MAYBE WE CAN MAKE HIM AN OFFER HE CAN'T REFUSE."

That almost made Mark laugh. "Okay, smart guy, what about the shooter from last night? Think you can link Anderson to him? Or him to Kerns?"

"WE WON'T KNOW UNTIL WE INTERROGATE HIM."

Mark leaned back in his chair. "He's small potatoes. He won't roll unless you offer him something big, and he won't give up any information unless you're willing to deal."

Frank nodded his head. "I KNOW."

"Think it was Kerns who left the cassette in the truck?"

Frank obviously had. "LAB FOUND SOME PRINTS ON THE CASSETTE. THEY'RE RUNNING THEM NOW, NOT EXPECTING TO FIND KERNS' PRINTS. HE'D HAVE WORN GLOVES."

"Yeah, why should he make it easy?" Mark muttered.

"Milt, I think both you and Mark need to head back home," Frank said. "I've got officers out there now. At least we can keep an eye on you two."

"I want to sit in on the interrogation," Hardcastle was determined to not be left out.

"What about Mark?"

Milt took the pen and pad and wrote out quickly, "OFFICER WILL GO BACK HOME WITH YOU."

"You want me to go home?" His face suddenly went from self-assured to perplexed.

"FRANK WANTS US BOTH BACK THERE UNDER GUARD FOR SAFE-KEEPING. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THIS GUY HAS TO SAY. MAYBE PICK UP SOMETHING WE'RE MISSING IN THE FILES. I'LL BE HOME AFTER HE QUESTIONS ANDERSON."

So he was being dismissed?

Just like that?

Well, it's not like he could hear this guy's answers.

Mark didn't even argue. He stood up and saw the officer that had left the room was waiting outside. "Guess I'm riding with him?" Wait… something… "I guess that since that body they found in the warehouse wasn't Kerns, no one knows who it was, right?"

Frank shook his head and said something to the judge who handed Mark another note. "JUST KNOW NOT KERNS. FEDS NOT TALKING ABOUT WHO THE DEAD GUY IS EITHER. ANDERSON MIGHT KNOW WHERE KERNS IS. HE MIGHT BE BEHIND THE SHOOTING LAST NIGHT."

"What about the shooter? I thought he was going to live."

He watched as Frank and Milt had another brief discussion, then Frank wrote down, "SHOOTER STILL UNCONSCIOUS BUT WILL LIVE. I'LL INTERVIEW HIM AS SOON AS I HEAR HE'S AWAKE. I'VE GOT DETECTIVES WAITING AT THE HOSPITAL."

So that meant there would be no questioning of said shooter for a while. "Fine. I'll go," Mark said as he walked out of the office and followed the officer downstairs.

OOOOO

The judge watched Mark's shoulders slump a bit as he walked off. "I hated doing that."

"He'll be safer at the estate, Milt. I've got officers watching the place, and we'll have officers will stay with you guys 'round the clock," Frank added.

Sure, Hardcastle knew that. He also knew that he just basically told Mark to go home since he wasn't any help there. That's not what the kid needed to hear right then.

"Okay, let's go talk to this Anderson."

OOOOO

Anthony "Toby" Anderson was no stranger to the system. He was not stranger to the joint. He'd been in and out of jail since he was a kid. There wasn't much a police lieutenant could threaten him with that he hadn't heard before. Even the two other detectives in the room weren't threatening, at least they weren't to Anderson.

Still, the old guy, Hardcastle, he was a different story. When he was in the holding cell, he learned that word on the street had him as a one man "legal" vigilante going after bad guys and doing it with the help and support of the police. He'd heard rumors along those lines for a while, but he hadn't paid much attention to them. The whole idea sounded insane. What was his game? Anderson watched him suspiciously.

His attorney, a public defender barely out of law school, sat by him quietly.

"Mister Anderson," Lieutenant Harper began, "you were arrested for trying to buy drugs. You've been arraigned and remanded until trial."

Okay, what was Harper's game? "Yeah. You know that."

"We ran your prints. You also go by the name Toby Anderson. You've got a rather long rap sheet."

"What is this all about?" his PD asked.

"Your client is in a unique position. He has information we want. If he works with us, let's just say certain charges may be dropped."

The lawyer whispered to Anderson who nodded his head. "Which specific charges?"

"Depends on what he gives us," Harper answered.

Anderson wriggled in his seat. "What do you want to know?"

"Where's Timothy Kerns?"

Anderson looked from Harper to Hardcastle and then back again. They wanted Kerns. If he gave him up, the drug charges could get dropped but he'd be dead. Still… "Okay, I'll tell you what I know about Kerns but I want full immunity and protection."

This raised a few eyebrows in the room. "Protection?" Harper asked. "Why?"

"Man, you don't know just how big this box of worms is you're looking for, do you?"

"Wait," the public defender placed his hand on Anderson's arm and whispered to him again. "Obviously, you've uncovered something big since the police lieutenant is conducting this interrogation, and that means my client gets a walk on all charges."

"And a new identity. These people would kill me if they knew I talked." Toby boldly added.

Frank stacked the papers in Anderson's file in a neat little pile. "Give me something good, and I'll talk to the D.A. Tell me what you know."

Anderson leaned back in his chair. "You want Kerns. He was at his house last time I saw him. I don't know where he is now. Don't care neither. Word is that he let some Fed get too close to him, he set a trap, trap got sprung. I didn't put all the pieces together until you threw me in that cell. The kid that works for the old guy here? He's the one who sprung the trap, and the big boys ain't happy with that. My guess is that Kerns was ordered to off the sidekick. Getting the judge would be gravy after that. He doesn't come through, he's the one wearing the cement shoes, get my drift?"

That summed things up pretty nicely.

And…

"What do you know about a man named Ray Katz?" Frank asked.

"Wait," the lawyer said again. "We have a deal? Immunity, new identity, relocation? We get that first, and then he talks more."

Frank sighed. As much as he wanted to nail this scumbag, there were bigger fish to fry. "I'll call the D.A. right now and see if she'll agree."

After Frank left, Milt sat there staring intently at Toby Anderson. There had to be some irony in the world that thought life was a cosmic joke. A green public defender was negotiating a walk for this guy, and a public defender didn't even try to negotiate McCormick's sentence. Not that he had anything to negotiate with, but still…

"What'd you tell Kerns?" the judge asked.

Anderson looked over at his lawyer who whispered something in his ear. Then, "He just wanted to know who was in the warehouse that night so he could ax him. He paid well for the information."

"You followed us," Milt stated.

"Easy enough. You guys didn't even look behind you when you left the hospital."

The judge leaned forward, linking the fingers of his hands together. "And Katz?"

"I only know him by reputation, you understand. Rumor is he used to be a pretty good hitman. International years ago. Local these days. Lost his touch though. The bosses keep him on out of loyalty. Ya know, long term service, retirement plan. Keep his trap shut. What's he got to do with anything?"

"Does he work for Kerns?"

Anderson laughed. "If he did, it'd cost Kerns plenty."

"Why's that?" Milt asked.

Anderson leaned back and almost glared at the judge and the detectives. "You guys just don't get it. These people are everywhere, and they got a long reach. But they're the bosses. Lots of us do jobs for the bosses and get paid pretty well for it. Some of those in the organization that are lower down the food chain try to get us to do jobs for them. When that happens, we charge more. They can't really do much to us or the bosses get mad that someone is trying to make the decisions. I charged Kerns plenty to use my services. Katz would have made him pay through the nose."

Hardcastle leaned back into his chair as Frank came back into the room. Milt gave Frank a barely discernable nod of his head, meaning that he had got information out of Anderson. "The D.A. will deal provided your information checks out. Now I want to know everything about you, Kerns, Katz and the people you work for."

Anderson laughed. "Don't know the people we work for personally. It's all business, you understand. Jobs ordered through phone calls, always told they're for the greater good, crap like that. I wouldn't know 'em if they were standing right next to me. I'm kind of under their radar, as it were, unless they need some kind of scrounged information. Katz works for some of the higher-ups though. Kerns works for them too, but he's in some special group. He's got some say-so in how things are done."

Harper wrote down the information and then asked, "How do you contact them?"

"Easy. I don't. They call me."

"Who called you last?"

"Kerns. Wanted me to find out who was at the warehouse. I found this talkative candy striper at the hospital and got McCormick's name. I waited until he was discharged and followed them back to that big house. I went to Kerns, told him the name and the address and collected my money."

"It was a lot of money," Frank pointed out.

"Anything else?" Hardcastle asked.

"Yeah, he seemed surprised when I told him the name Hardcastle. Seems he recognized it. I don't think he was expecting that."

An officer knocked on the door and walked into the interrogation room. He leaned down and whispered something to Frank, then turned and left. Frank motioned for Milt to follow him out of the room, leaving Anderson, his lawyer and two detectives to finish the interrogation.

"What's up?" Milt asked.

"Katz is awake. I'm heading over to the hospital, you head home. I'll let you know what I find out. Look, take those files on my desk with you, see what you can piece together in the meantime. Maybe we'll find another link somewhere. And try to keep out of trouble, okay?"

Milt raised his eyebrows at that. "We always try to stay out of trouble."

_**Chapter 22**_

Kerns almost didn't pick up the phone. He had a pretty good idea it was one of his 'partners.' Still, not answering it could be fatal.

"Hello?"

"_Mister Kerns, please tell me that you did not leave a taped cassette of your voice threatening a retired judge_."

Kerns froze. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. "If we can scare –"

"_Scare Milton C. Hardcastle? His reputation is known, Mister Kerns. He doesn't scare. You, however, are a very different subject_."

Kerns cleared his throat. "What do you mean?"

"_We are now forced to deal with Hardcastle and McCormick ourselves. You are too exposed. We are not happy with this turn of events_."

"No, I'm not either," Kerns agreed. "Had Katz not botched the job…"

"_Mister Katz was not your employee to send on a job or to pay for his expertise_."

There was no room for argument from the sound of his voice. "No, but he was accustomed to this line of work."

"'_Was' is the operative word, Mister Kerns. However, his failure to successfully deal with these two gentlemen has now created a situation in which the police are involved in a more in-depth manner. This is not a good development. Police involvement always raises questions better left unasked in our particular line of work_."

That was true enough. "I understand. I'll find a way…"

"_No, Mister Kerns, we find that we no longer require your services in this matter. Our association is at an end," _and the man on the other end hung up the phone.

This only meant one thing. Kerns was now a marked man.

Hardcastle and McCormick were going to pay.

OOOOO

Milt drove back to the estate in silence. He didn't even turn on the radio. He looked in his rear view mirror and saw the police car following him. He had a feeling this was going to be a long haul.

Anderson hadn't told them much more than they'd already guessed at or pieced together with the few clues they had, but he had given them enough information to perhaps put a few more pieces together.

Maybe Kerns figured that Hardcastle had targeted him as their next case, and he was wanting to silence both him and McCormick. It wasn't just one of them being hunted and the other caught in the crossfire. Still, McCormick had to be his first priority since he had been in the warehouse.

He didn't like that scenario, not one little bit.

He finally pulled into his driveway and saw the police car sitting opposite it, the two police officers watching the house and enjoying a pizza. McCormick must have ordered them one, no doubt. He also saw the police officer that drove Mark home sitting by the pool, but he couldn't see his friend anywhere. He had to be nearby if the officer was.

Then, he thought he saw movement in the garage. Maybe McCormick was puttering around with his car? Milt didn't think so. Maybe he just didn't want to be stuck inside the house? It was dangerous to be outside…

He wasn't in the garage, but rather he was out by the uprooted tree. Milt had forgotten that he had called in some tree specialists to remove it before McCormick took it upon himself to try it himself. He looked closely and saw a plain clothes police officer practically right on top of McCormick, guarding him, and Mark seemed to be 'supervising' the tree removal. He was busy pointing and motioning to the two workers.

Hardcastle walked over to where they stood.

"There you are," Mark started as he saw Hardcastle approach, "These guys were just about to take up half the lawn with their truck. I told them they needed to do this the old fashioned way, digging the poor old girl out by hand. She's not in there that deep that they need to use chains and 4-wheel drive."

Milt looked to the tree removers. He had to agree with Mark. There wasn't any sense to rip up and damage a quarter section of the lawn when the tree was 90 percent out of the ground already. "He's right. Either you guys do this the right way or I'll hire someone else to do it."

"Digging that tree out is going to take us the rest of the afternoon," one of them moaned.

"Too bad. Do you want the job or not?" Milt fired back.

"You're both crazy," the same guy said. He took his sour attitude to a higher level. "Whattsa matter with him anyway? He deaf or something? He hasn't heard a word we're saying or maybe he just don't understand English."

One stupid comment was all it took for Milt Hardcastle to have enough and he completely erupted. He grabbed the guy who spoke by his t-shirt and held him in close proximity. "Get your stuff, get in your truck and get the hell off my property."

McCormick and the cop stood by, shocked at the Judge's outburst. The cop had at least heard the conversation and understood where the anger was coming from. McCormick, on the other hand, was trying to understand what had just happened without much success. He could only guess that he'd been insulted some way and that the Judge stepped in to 'defend' his honor, something McCormick thought he was quite capable of handling for himself. He glanced over at the cop who just shook his head in an 'I'm not saying nothing' sort of way.

The tree guy wasn't about to back down and he managed to work his hand up, release Hardcastle's grip and even throw a rather soft punch in the Judge's direction which Milt backed away from. It didn't do any damage. Milt simply rifled back his arm and stood prepared to get into the donnybrook with the idiot when finally the cop stepped in and pushed the tree guy away.

"Just get out of here, will ya? Don't make it any worse," the cop said, standing his ground.

The tree guy spat on the ground and got his things together and headed out.

McCormick was still in the dark as to what exactly happened.

The cop asked Milt if he was okay. Hardcastle stared at the ground and offered up his apology. "Yeah, I'm sorry you had to see that." The cop took a step back as McCormick stepped in.

"Judge, what in the hell just happened?" Mark asked.

The Judge shook his head, turned his back to him and headed for the house. McCormick followed behind with the cop right on his tail doing his duty. Mark stopped, spun around and tersely said to the cop. "Leave us alone."

The cop obeyed without question.

Hardcastle was headed into the house. He knew Mark was right on his tail, but he didn't want to have this discussion.

Mark shouted after him. "I know you know I'm back here. Remember, I'm the one who's deaf, Judge, not you."

Hardcastle ignored him and went inside the house. Mark followed and slammed the door. "Judge, would you talk to me and tell me what happened? What'd that guy say that set you off?"

The Judge found another notepad laying around, these days they were scattered around all over the house. "NEVERMIND" he wrote.

"Like hell. What did he say?"

"DOESN'T MATTER, IT'S OVER."

"You mean the tree situation or us?"

"US? WHAT'S THAT MEAN?"

"You know damn well what it means." He watched the judge look away. "Judge, I'm sorry this happened. As much I want it to, I can't change it. You can't change it." He stood there for a moment and waited for the judge to write something or even look at him, but neither happened. Before Mark gave up on the situation he added, "I don't know what it means for us either. Maybe that's what scares me more than being permanently deaf." He walked away to his temporary bedroom to get away.

OOOOO

McCormick slammed the door behind him for good measure. He might not have heard it, but he knew the Judge did and better than that, he knew the Judge hated slamming doors. It brought him a brief moment of satisfaction.

He blew out a breath. Great, here he was now, locked himself into an even smaller room, confining himself even more. He made a fist, but there was nothing around for him to hit. There was nothing around him but the unending, unmerciful silence. It surrounded him day and night. It didn't matter how big or how small things were, how bright or how dull, there was that NOTHING that was always there now.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. How long he just sat there, he didn't know. He lost track of time. After a while, he lay down on his back, staring at the ceiling, then around the room. The room was neither masculine nor feminine in its design. It simply was a room, a guest room in Hardcastle's house. Nothing to differentiate it as anything other than a guest room, nothing special to give it a theme or ambiance. That's what his life felt like to him, bland and lackluster, like he was nothing more important than a boring guest room. Was this all it was about, he was just a guest of life? If he was, he was beginning to not like the accommodations. The ASL book was on the nightstand, where he'd left it the night before. He picked it up in his hand and quickly motioned out the alphabet that he'd self-taught himself.

"Big deal, McCormick, a kindergartner can do that." He said quietly. The plain room did not answer him back.

If this was some sort of sign from above, he paused, thinking of the word he just thought. SIGN. Cute, McCormick, real cute. Anyway, if it was a sign, he hated it. No, he flat out rejected it. He didn't want to be deaf, he didn't ask for this. For the first time in a very long time, Mark McCormick had plans and being deaf wasn't part of it. He had hopes and dreams and things were better than good, up until now. And then this had to happen? No. It wasn't fair at all.

Somewhere back in his head he could hear his mother's voice, "Life's not fair, Mark, but it is your life."

Boy, his mother was a certifiable genius. In the ten short years he knew her, how many times had she said that to him? He laughed, only every time he'd start complaining about something, that's how many times she'd said it to him. No life wasn't fair, _his_ life especially wasn't fair, especially after she died. Maybe that's why she'd told him that so many times, so he wouldn't forget the cruelest thing of all. If he could go on after her death, he could overcome anything right?

He ran through the alphabet again. It wasn't hard to learn or memorize.

He flipped over on the bed and reached for the ASL book and opened it up. He needed to know more than letters. He needed to learn words, sentences, in order to carry on conversations, in order to move on with his life if his deafness was permanent – and like the doctor said, there was a chance that it could be permanent. Fair or not, this was his life now and he had to face it.

He pushed the pages around from one to the other, repeating the same movements with his fingers over and over.

_Can you help me?_

_Talk to me._

_Help me._

_I'm deaf._

_Where is the bathroom?_

_Let's eat._

_What's the score?_

_I need to find a policeman._

_Judge_

_Basketball_

_Lawyer_

_Race Car Driver_

The words and sentences he learned or that he thought he needed to learn were as endless as the book seemed to be. This was just the tip of the iceberg, and he began to devour it.

OOOOO

Frank tried to get his thoughts together about this entire mess as he walked down the hospital corridor. He mentally went through the notes. First, a warehouse owned by a Customs contractor, leased to Kerns who shipped munitions to other countries, Customs officials didn't stop the cargo or inspect it, a snitch tells Kerns about Mark and Milt, then Katz is hired to kill them but misses. Kerns recognized Hardcastle's name… Could they really be looking at a battle on two fronts? What if Kerns really did think that Hardcastle was after him because he walked out of his court on a technicality, and then his bosses were after them because they think that Mark and Milt saw something they shouldn't have?

Maybe their little excursion worked just the way Milt thought it did?

Harper walked into the hospital room and saw Katz lying in a nearby bed, handcuffed to the railing. He flashed his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Frank Harper, LAPD, I have to ask you a few questions, Katz."

"Go to hell," Katz spat at him and turned his head away.

"Doctors say you're going to be fine, so you either do this now or believe me, I'll have you hauled off to the San Quentin infirmary where you won't have all this quality, first rate medical care." Frank hoped he sounded convincing. Even Katz had to know that prisoners were entitled to medical care. "What's it gonna be?"

"You cops got all the angles. What exactly do you want?"

"That's better," Frank gave him a fake smile. "Tell me about Timothy Kerns."

Katz laughed, "Other than he's a dead man?"

"He's dead?"

"If he's not, he's gonna be. They don't like it when you fail to complete your mission."

"Who are you talking about, Katz?"

Katz kept up his smug attitude. "Come on, Harper, how 'bout you telling me what you think you know about Kerns first. Then I sit back and laugh."

"I'm not playing games with you, Katz. I can make sure you never see the light of day again."

Katz' mood turned sour. "Big deal! You don't get it, do you? I'm dead, too. I failed in my objective. That's not good in my line of work. They'll think I've lost my touch, and that's the one thing I don't want them to think. They don't like dead weight or employees who can't earn their keep. Maybe if I keep my mouth shut though and do my time, they'll let me go, that's the best I can hope for. Right now, me and Kerns are both marked men."

So Katz didn't know that he was only kept on the payroll because of long term service, not because he was any good. Could Frank use that? Maybe Katz had an over-inflated opinion of his abilities? He had to see how this was going to play out. "So who is this so-called group? If you tell me, maybe I can offer you up some protection. We can get to the bottom of it, maybe we'll call in some federal help if it's as big as you claim they are."

Katz laughed again. "Feds? You do have a screw loose, don't you? This ain't Mayberry we're talking about, Deputy Fife. That curly headed dude and that old Judge walked in one nasty powder keg and your so-called Feds are wrapping the wire around it and getting ready to light the fuse now. I found out about that Judge when you guys hauled me here, that he goes after people. Well, brother, he better brace himself for taking on this thing. They will find a way to kill them, pull out all the stops and they won't blink when they do it. No one will ever know why. That's how powerful they are. Hell, I don't even understand the whole thing myself."

"Why do you think they'd kill them?"

"You think they're gonna take a chance on anybody being able to link them to any of this?" Katz voice went up a few decibels.

Harper was frustrated by his histrionics. "Let's get back to basics. Who hired you?"

"You already know that answer. Kerns. And don't ask me for specifics about who Kerns works for because I don't know. I never met them face to face. I just get my orders by phone. Kerns doesn't divulge his suppliers. Everyone has their function and you either do it or you get yourself eliminated. Like I said, you don't even have a clue what's involved. That's all I'm saying."

Something was gnawing at Frank's memory, some little something that he couldn't quite put his finger on… wait a minute, something Anderson had said… "Tell me how they contact you. How does it work?"

Katz took a deep breath and blew it out. "Let's say you have someone who's a bit of a problem you want dealt with. You tell someone who tells someone who tells someone who calls me. I'm given the name or address and how they want it to go down. I go, do the job, and there's a nice wad of money left for me in a specified location. You have worked hits before, right?"

Frank really didn't like this guy. "When you're called, what do they say?"

"They say they have a job for me. They'll either give me a name and address or description and location. Then they tell me if they want them shot in a house, car, garage, whatever. Doesn't matter who it is. It's always for the greater good, they say."

"Do they always say it's for the greater good?" Frank asked.

"Yeah. Look, I've already told you enough to get a bullet between the eyes. They find me, I'm dead, and you're an accomplice to a murder. I want protection."

Something was very fishy, Frank thought. Neither Anderson nor Katz had given him specifics, but what they had told him was enough to scare them. It was more than their bosses ever wanted known.

"I've already talked to the district attorney," Frank told him. "There are two detectives guarding you now, and the U.S. Marshals will be here later today to take you into custody. You will not be put into witness protection until the information is checked out, but we are going to keep you under wraps. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Katz waved a dismissing hand toward Harper. Before Frank left, Katz said, "They kill cops, too. Being a lieutenant won't give you any protection."

Cop killers, and they had the bullets in the warehouse. A Customs contractor? This wasn't making any sense. Yet.

Good thing the D.A. was willing to play ball to catch the bigger fish, but it galled Frank to think that Katz and Anderson could get a walk. _Sure_, the D.A. had said, _we'll give them witness protection, but they'll have to do some time for other crimes. We'll put them in solitary, keep them alive until they serve their time and then put them in the program. _Frank hadn't told the suspects that. He would let the lawyers iron all that out.

What galled him even more was the fact that two scumbags like Anderson and Katz could end up on Easy Street while Milt and Mark could end up in body bags.

OOOOO

Mark skipped dinner that evening, choosing instead to stay in the guestroom, reading, motioning and learning as much as he could.

He ran across signs for emotions, people, acts, objects, animals. He smiled, that was a good one, animals. He flipped to the chapter and started to learn animals. Where was the motion for donkey…

The long, lonely night quickly passed. He hoped in the morning, he'd remember half of what he had practiced. There was one more he wanted to learn for the night. He opened up to the "F's" and scanned the section to find it. There it was. Joining your two index fingers together. That would be the first one he'd tell Milt in the morning, right after he'd motion 'sorry' once again. His tired eyes gave out and he fell to sleep.

Outside the room, Milt had been battling with himself from the late afternoon until now. It was 1:00am. The kid hadn't even bothered to eat dinner. Their relationship was treading water to put it mildly. Hardcastle had enough of leaving him alone. Even though he felt ridiculous to continue to check up on him like he was a baby, he wanted to make sure he was okay.

He stood at the doorway and slowly opened the knob.

There Mark was, sleeping with the book of ASL right beside him. As he took a step closer, he saw the book was open to page of words that started with an 'F. He glanced over to McCormick's hands where he still had his two index fingers joined together. He carefully slid the book off the bed to see what that meant.

Friend, that's what it meant. That's what he needed to continue to be for the kid. Milt repeated the motion himself. This stuff was easy to learn.

Carefully he picked the book off the bed and scanned for another word. He found it, practiced it twice and closed the book to set it on the nightstand.

Back over to the doorway he went to leave, but not before he signed what he had just learned. "Good night friend." And he shut off the light and exited.

OOOOO

_Ten laps to go._

_Mark had moved up in position. He was now second. There was a chance he could win the race, take home the trophy and the money. He'd be standing in the Winner's Circle…_

"_McCormick!" the judge's voice sounded over the earpiece in his helmet. "Hurry up and win this thing. We've got work to do!"_

_Hurry up? He was already going over 130 miles per hour! He couldn't afford to make another pit stop for gas – it'd cost him! He'd lose! NOW was the time to be steady, to make good choices and get ahead of the pack. NOW was the time when the race really was a nail biting experience. He was so close to getting what he wanted…._

_He just had to be steady._

_He had to concentrate on the goal._

_All he had to do was win this race and then he could go work on a case with the judge. Hardcastle was urging him on to finish so they could…_

_Why was he racing? There was a case to solve, a bad guy to put away. Wasn't that more important? His head felt like it was going to explode, finish the race or finish the case? He heard it in his head set and then he saw it as he lapped around again on the sign board in his pit. What? Race or Case, did it really say that?_

_But he just had ten more laps to go…_

_He needed to finish this last race…_

Mark woke up. He looked around the room… right, he was in the guest room at the main house. He saw the ASL book lying on the nightstand… he didn't remember putting it there, but he must have.

The dream he'd been having was starting to evaporate. He knew he'd had other dreams like it before. He was racing in a NASCAR race, the judge was with the pit crew and was always telling him to hurry and win the race because they had work to do.

For a brief moment, he wondered if the dreams meant anything. He glanced at the clock. 3:13 in the morning. He punched the pillow a bit, softening it up and then fell back asleep, forgetting all about the racing dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 23**_

What a difference a day made.

At least there hadn't been any more attempts on their lives or any more unsuspecting packages left anywhere – for the last few hours, anyway. The part about being deaf, well, that still remained.

Mark crouched by the flower bed as he pulled those pesky weeds up one by one. His ribs wouldn't let him pick up the hedge clippers yet, but they didn't seem to mind if he weeded the garden, so he weeded and he practiced his signing while he was doing it. All the words and phrases he'd learned the night before came back to him easily. He'd pick a weed and sign. It seemed simple and easy enough, definitely nothing to overexert him or his ribs.

Hardcastle probably didn't want him doing anything that bothered his ribs, but he also was a good enough friend to see that he needed space. Last night's outburst seemed to reinforce that idea. Mark needed to do something besides sitting around inside under the protective watch of the police. Sure, the judge would probably yell at him for overexerting himself, thinking that sitting on the ground and pulling weeds was too strenuous, and it would probably take the better part of the day and most of tomorrow morning to convince the donkey to continue to let him do some more putzing out on the flower beds. At least he wasn't mucking about with the downed tree. It was just laying there across the yard. Whatever it was that the tree service employee had said had set off the judge big time, but no one would tell him what. Sure, it was probably an insult to Mark, but it wasn't like he couldn't handle insults.

Maybe it didn't really matter. He put it out of his mind and started weeding. He signed 'time to garden' and smiled.

For the first time in, what, over two weeks -- he was alone. Sort of. Mrs. Drinkwater was out in her garden and had waved at Mark when she saw him. The Drinkwaters were a nice couple, always kept an eye on the estate when he and the judge were out of town, kept an eye on them when they were in town and watched their every move – Mark figured out a long time ago that their antics at the estate had to be more entertaining than cable television. Now they were watching the Milt and Mark Show with special guest stars, the LAPD! Goodness knows what Mrs. Drinkwater was thinking when she spied the uniforms walking around the estate every day. At least the police officer wasn't hovering over his shoulder. He was a respectable distance away keeping watch. There was something very strange being alone in the quiet. All this time, he knew Hardcastle had been a yell away. Now, alone, he could really hear the quiet in a way he hadn't before. He really was alone.

He didn't like it.

He tried to pull out one particular weed, and he realized that bugger had a deep root. He tried to grab hold of it a different way – bad idea. His ribs screamed at him. So not a good idea. Okay, that was not going to work. He carefully reached over and picked up the trowel and began to dig the weed out. Blast it all, he'd just weeded the garden a few weeks earlier. Didn't the weeds understand they weren't welcome there? That was very rude.

He tried to hook his trowel under one of the roots and slowly pull it out, but it was slow going. The ground didn't want to give it up. Small bit by small bit, the one root began to pull free of the dirt. He kept the pressure fairly steady despite the ache beginning in his ribs… the root burst free, the momentum causing him to lose his grip on the trowel, and it soared behind him. He turned to pick it up and …

OOOOO

Hardcastle couldn't help it. He knew he was being a smothering old hen and he had to be careful not to let the kid see him peeking out through the windows. That's why in-between studying the files and making notes, he was sneaking from room to room to check on him so as not to give McCormick any suspicion.

He spotted him weeding and signing. That was unique, but not an altogether odd combination. Heck, he was a judge and McCormick was an ex-con, and people thought their working together was odd. Odd was the norm for them, sort of. He breathed a sigh of relief that the kid was coping for now by keeping busy – weeding the garden and practicing some sign language. That was all he was doing, Milt. Weeding and signing. What possible harm could come from that? Dandelions and crab grass posed no threat to National Security. Creeping Ben didn't carry bombs and guns and clover was about as harmless as a baby. It gave Mark something to do, and he had to be climbing the walls from boredom or slamming bedroom doors in frustration as it was.

Milt couldn't blame him. Maybe he'd get McCormick to check out the files later as well. Maybe he'd see something new that both Milt and Frank had overlooked. It'd keep him busy and in the house and in Milt's sights --

'Let him be, he's a grown man and he's got to get through some of this on his own. Nothing's going to happen. There's police protection right outside.' At least, that's what Milt kept telling himself. Another gunman would have problems getting close enough to shoot. They were at home with a police guard.

Still, he'd argue half-heartedly with the kid afterwards. Things may be different, but he still had to put on a good show. He did not want him to be out in the open.

Milt heard an odd sound… maybe a car backfiring? Twice? Three times?

He'd just go check outside through all the windows facing the yard one more time...

"NO, MCCORMICK," he shouted to no avail.

OOOOO

There was a car barreling down on him! It was a 1979 Caprice Classic. Sky blue. It headed straight for him. The bullets shooting from the passenger side hit the police officer at the pool.

OOOOO

Milt grabbed his trusted shotgun and headed outside to hopefully prevent this new attack. He jumped over the body of the now dead officer and rushed toward McCormick. The kid didn't see or hear the car approaching and by the time he did, it would be too late. Milt picked up the gun and aimed. He hit the rear driver's side tire. That slowed up the car a bit, made the back end swerve a little, but not nearly enough. It still was on a collision course with McCormick who was turning to pick up a trowel. He aimed up the shotgun and fired again.

OOOOO

Mark saw the Caprice drive approaching down off the terrace and head straight for him when all of a sudden out of the corner of his eye he witnessed Hardcastle shooting out another tire! Another? Both rear tires were blasted! He stood there in shock watching the whole thing transpire before his eyes.

It finally sank into his head. This nut bag was trying to run him over. These lunatics were not quitting. Mark didn't wait another moment. He jumped up and did a roll over to the right as the car roared by him. The wind got knocked out of him immediately. The passenger aimed a gun out the window at him and Mark fell flat on the ground as the bullets flew near him, his ribs screaming in protest. He yelled in agony. He knew he couldn't stay there! The bullets hit the ground, shooting up dirt and grass and leaving gaping holes – they were hollow points!

The driver turned the car turned into a fast 180 spin, the tires clawing and spinning into the ground and headed back for him. Mark did a quick run and dove behind the fallen tree. The passenger reloaded and began shooting in his direction. The bullets shattered the bark and nearly blasted through the tree trunk where Mark was ducked down behind. The driver swerved the car around the tree trunk, and Mark jumped up fast and took off. He ran towards the gatehouse, holding an arm against his ribs, using trees to try to block the car from demolishing him, even dodging the old lawnmower sitting there. He saw something dark shoot past his head – it was the hubcap from the driver side front tire. The Judge must have shot out another. He was about to dive into the door of the gatehouse when he jumped off to the side into the shrubbery instead. The driver slammed on the brakes, but he couldn't stop the car going that fast and it crashed through the gatehouse, right beside the door.

Mark fell to the ground and lay there, breathing heavily while he tried to get on speaking terms with his ribs again. All of a sudden, Milt was standing there, hand on his shoulder, mouthing the word, "Okay?"

Mark nodded his head, signed something by his ear that Milt had no clue as to its meaning. Instead, he put one thumb up meaning A-OK and then just lay still.

Sniper one night, car that afternoon, sore ribs, deaf for God knows how long and some pesky weeds with really long roots and a friend who was a first class donkey who shot out tires with a shotgun, but a good one to have around -- his luck was just getting better and better, wasn't it?

Hardcastle went over to the Caprice and looked inside. Mark guessed that the guys inside were either dead or unconscious. He then saw Hardcastle looking toward the gate. Mark craned his neck and looked in that direction. Where were the police that were supposed to be guarding the gate?

_**Chapter 24**_

"Thanks for coming, Charlie," Milt told the doctor as he checked out Mark's ribs. "He absolutely refused to go back to the hospital."

"No problem. I can't say I blame him." Charlie Friedman re-taped Mark's ribs. It was easy to see that Mark was in a bit of a depression. He wasn't even trying to communicate with Charlie, and normally, he'd be talking his ears off. Now he was sullen and concentrating on taking a breath without feeling like his chest and stomach were getting sat upon. It looked like he was also trying to be invisible with all the police officers swarming around the house and grounds.

"Tell me something, Milt, have you and Mark ever considered charging admission to this little circus you have going here?"

Milt furrowed his forehead in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean your neighbors, the Drinkwaters. They were looking over here when I drove up. It looked like they were having a picnic in their back yard and were watching everything through binoculars."

Milt just shook his head. "I'm guessing they've got a lot of enjoyment watching us. According to the officer outside, it was Mrs. Drinkwater who called the police when she saw the car try to run Mark down. Good thing she was watching. How's he doing?"

"I don't think the ribs are broken, but I'll bet their sore as all get-out. Some might be bruised. This should let him move around a little easier. Call his doctor, let him know what happened and try to get him to get them x-rayed. He's not listening to me when I tell him to go. In fact, he's not listening at all."

Milt would have laughed at the absurdity of the statement if things had been a little more normal around the house. As it was, Mark was stubbornly digging in and refusing to go back to the hospital. Forcing the issue might not work.

"How long's he been like this?" Charlie asked Milt.

"You mean deaf? I told ya…"

"I mean depressed."

Milt sighed. "It's been coming on since we got shot at. Hell, maybe since he woke up from the explosion. Can you blame him? I don't know how to help him, we're doing the best we can here."

Charlie finished up and handed Mark his shirt back. For his part, Mark was performing tasks like an automaton. Each movement measured, each movement 'ordinary.' It was as if he had gone to autopilot.

Frank hurried into the room. "So?"

"He'll be okay," Milt answered. "What about your guys?"

"All four were shot with hollow points. One's dead, the other three are going to County. One's critical and might not even make the trip to the hospital. It looks like they were using the same type of rounds we found at the warehouse. Damn it, Milt, these guys shot cops! Katz said they'd do that." Frank sat down next to Mark who was beginning to take a little interest in the group of men around him. He might not be able to hear, but he could definitely interpret the emotions behind what was being said.

Frank looked down at the gatehouse and saw the paramedics removing the two men from the Caprice. The gatehouse was in shambles, it had to be. The smashed front end of the car was now sitting in Mark's living room through a gaping hole in the wall. At least the kid was okay. "I saw that tree trunk when I drove in," Charlie mentioned to them. "It looked like someone used a machine gun on it."

"McCormick jumped down behind it when they were trying to run him over," Hardcastle explained. "And it's not a machine gun. That's what happens when hollow points are used. He's lucky none of the bullets shot through the trunk."

"The driver's dead," Frank told him. The passenger is banged up pretty bad. We'll be able to get him on a variety of charges. He won't be seeing free sky ever again."

"Charlie, I gotta talk to Frank. Can you keep McCormick occupied?" Milt asked.

"I'll try, but knowing him, it won't be for long," Charlie dryly answered.

Frank and Milt left the den and Mark perked up as he saw them go and started to get to his feet. Charlie reached out and grabbed him. "Not so fast."

Mark pointed to his ears to remind him that whatever he said slipped off into the cosmos.

"Ah, sorry about that." He picked up the pen and pad he had used earlier to ask Mark questions about his ribs. "NOT SO FAST, I WANT TO CHECK A COUPLE OF OTHER THINGS."

Mark scowled and shook his head no and pointed to the door.

"WHAT'S A MATTER WITH YOUR MOUTH? I KNOW YOU CAN TALK."

"Maybe I don't want to," he said, and surprised Charlie by signing it as well as speaking it, his voice sounding a bit dejected and solemn.

Charlie laughed. "SIT DOWN HERE, THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW MINUTES MORE, THEN YOU CAN GO JOIN YOUR FAN CLUB. THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT THE POLICE OFFICERS THAT WERE HURT AND THE TWO IN THAT CAR THAT TRIED TO RUN YOU DOWN."

"Your handwriting is better than the Judge's. And you're a doctor." Mark said in disbelief.

"I FLUNKED THE CLASS IN PRESCIPTION WRITING, BUT STILL MANAGED TO BECOME A DOCTOR. YOU'RE TEACHING YOURSELF TO SIGN?"

"It's something to do," he said, his voice still void of emotion, "What's left to check?"

"EYES, EARS, SKULL AND ANY PLACE ELSE YOU'RE COMPLAINING ABOUT."

"If you can fix the ears, that'd be great. Everything else is fine."

'WHO'S THE DOCTOR HERE?"

Charlie went about checking his pupils and his skull for any sign of bump or fracture. 'YOU SURE YOU DIDN'T HURT ANYTHING ELSE?"

"No, I think I've had my quota of injuries, but thanks for checking."

"SEE, I KNEW IF I HUNG AROUND YOU LONG ENOUGH, I'D GET SOME OF THAT WIT I LOVE SO WELL."

McCormick even gave him a smile. "Can I go now? I know they're talking about me." He made a couple of signs that Charlie couldn't make out. "It's been like this for a while now."

Charlie started to nod, then he grabbed his hand. "THINK ABOUT GETTING THOSE RIBS X-RAYED MARK, JUST TO MAKE SURE NOTHING NEW'S BUSTED."

Mark gave him a nod and went into the other room.

OOOOO

Meanwhile over in the kitchen, the conversation between Milt and Frank was intensifying.

"Katz told me that he and Kerns are dead men because they failed to get rid of you and Mark, and that these guys have no problems killing cops," Milt said. "I think these two weren't sent by Kerns. I think they were sent by their employers."

"So Kerns is still coming after us and now his bosses are too. Do we even know who his bosses are?"

"No names, but I have been digging into the owners of the warehouse though. U.S. Exporters is an independent government contractor, and all the paperwork's in order. They own warehouses and real estate all over the country and make a lot of money leasing them out to various companies. Their leasing that warehouse to Kerns was legit. They export for various government agencies and charities."

"All legal, huh?" Milt asked. "There's got to be something. I mean, we're both thinking that the contractors are Kerns' bosses, right?"

"Right, but without any way to link anything to anyone –"

"We're spinning our wheels," Milt said.

Frank saw Charlie finishing up with Mark. "Is Mark really okay?"

"He didn't hear a damn thing, Frank. That car was coming straight for him and he didn't hear it or even feel it. This is getting way out of control. I don't know what to do anymore. Whoever is behind all this isn't going to quit until the two of us are dead."

"I can put a man right beside him 24/7 after today's little waltz, but you and I both know he's not going to go for that. He'll think that _that_ will get someone else killed," Frank answered. "The same goes for you."

"If I hadn't been out there with the shotgun as fast as I was, you'd be taking him away in the meat wagon. Who knows what they're going to try next and when too? Do you have any more ideas?"

"Well, I talked with Katz but he didn't give me much. But he did insinuate that the Feds from the wrong side of the tracks are involved in this. I haven't been able to find any connection yet to corroborate that."

"Dirty Feds and Customs officials? Along with a government contractor? Are you kidding me, Frank?"

"It could be. You know as well as I do that bad cops can unfortunately rise to the top. It sure wouldn't be the first time."

"Boy, we're in this up to our…." Milt took his hand and motioned to his own head and just at that moment Mark walked in.

"Ears," he said, not knowing what they were talking about, but assuming it was about his loss of hearing. "I know I'm the liability here." He made the same two signs he'd made to Charlie, but didn't bother to speak them.

"WHAT'D YOU SAY?" Hardcastle wrote down.

"Nothing, just quit talking about me."

Milt reached over for the paper. "WE WEREN'T DISCUSSING YOU, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT THE SUSPECTS."

Frank grabbed more paper and wrote out, "MIGHT BE DIRTY FEDS AND CORRUPT GOVERNMENT CONTRACTOR. MILT WAS SAYING HOW DEEP WE'RE IN THIS." He repeated the hand motion going up to his head.

They were both quick to include Mark into the latest information. "Who are they?" Mark asked.

"DON'T KNOW YET, STILL TRYING TO GET A HANDLE ON THE WHOLE THING. ONLY NAMES WE HAVE SO FAR ARE KERNS AND U.S. EXPORTERS," Frank wrote.

"If it's Feds, they won't stop 'til they kill us. They'll think we know more than we do."

Milt nodded. "WE'RE GONNA HAVE ROUND THE CLOCK PROTECTION, YOU OKAY WITH THAT?"

"No, but I understand why. What about the officers who were here earlier?"

Frank wrote out, "ONE DEAD, ONE CRITICALLY WOUNDED, TWO SERIOUSLY WOUNDED."

"Putting officers here could get them killed," Mark pointed out. "Those guys were shooting hollow points from an automatic."

That got Frank's attention. "YOU KNEW THEY WERE HOLLOW POINTS?"

Mark nodded his head. "Did you see what damage they did to the ground and that tree trunk? I think your officers are going to need bullet proof vests while they're here."

His voice was so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion that even Frank was worried. That wasn't like McCormick. He didn't NOT get angry when he got shot at or run down. He wasn't cursing the bad guys or yelling at anyone who happened to be in earshot. He was unnervingly calm.

No wonder Milt was worried.

_**Chapter 25**_

Mark sat on the edge of the fountain and watched the tow truck haul off the '79 Caprice. That was one car that wasn't going to run again, not after tangling with the brick wall of the gatehouse and smashing the engine. If he'd seen the excitement happen in a movie, then the car would have blown up as soon as it hit the gate house. He was glad they weren't in a movie. Of course, the gatehouse wasn't exactly going to be the same again either after having been plowed into. It was the first time in weeks he had any inclination to smile even though he didn't. For some odd reason, nearly getting run over, but then not getting run over, and having Hardcase blast out the tires of the oncoming car as a perfectly direct hit from fifty yards away with that old shotgun of his that seemed right. Normal. It was what he was used to. Perfectly routine, strange as it was. His eyes scanned from the gatehouse back to the tail lights of Mac's Towing Service truck, to the police officers milling around the estate, to the police cars staking out the various entrances, to the Drinkwaters who were glancing at them from an upper story window, to the ripped up yard he would have to re-sod eventually and then on toward the house where, marching into view, was one Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. There definitely was no reason to smile now. He could tell by the judge's gait that he was coming toward him with purpose and, in normal times, that would mean screaming at the top of his lungs either from worry, fear, frustration or just because he could.

Times were not normal. There'd be no screaming involved.

Milt slowed up as he approached, and he pulled out the notebook and pen out of the back pocket of his jeans.

McCormick dropped his head down. He'd give anything for some screaming right now, even if he couldn't hear it. THAT would be normal too. Here, there was not only some major property damage, but also they were thrust in the middle of some sort of international melee and he knew Hardcastle would turn them to milquetoast when they found them, unless the bad guys turned them into road kill first.

Milt wrote as he walked and when he reached Mark, he tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he wanted him to read what he'd written. Forcing himself to raise his head he read the note to himself.

"YOU OKAY?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Judge. Ribs hurt a little, but I'll live," Mark said wearily, standing up and starting to go over to the gatehouse. Hardcastle was right on his tail, and he grabbed his arm and stopped him. "What? I just want to go and check it out." He pointed toward his residence.

Milt hurriedly wrote something down.

"GOING TO START SUPPER."

"I'm not hungry." He took another step toward the gatehouse, and Milt quickly caught up to him. "Now what?"

Hardcastle was already scribbling.

"YOU'RE ALWAYS HUNGRY, AND DON'T GO IN THERE."

"Why not? The scary guys in the car are all gone now. Remember, Frank took one away in a body bag and the other away in a police car. There's nothing in there that'll hurt me. We've got cops everywhere. I just want to see it."

"STRUCTURE MAYVE NOT SAVE."

"You mean the structure's not safe, right?"

Another note, this time he read it out loud. "COME OVER TO THE HOUSE."

"Why, Judge?"

Milt quickly wrote down, "I HAVE SOMETHING I WNAT YOU TO DO."

"'Wnat?'"

'WANT" Milt angrily rewrote and added, "WISEGUY"

"Can't it wait?"

Milt simply shook his head no and reached out and began to pull Mark toward the main house.

They walked into the den. Mark was the first one in and as he hit the bottom step he turned and asked. "Okay, now what? What's so important?"

The judge motioned for him to take a seat.

"This is ridiculous. I don't want to sit down." All it took was a serious, straightforward look and he went over and sat down and waited for whatever was coming next.

Milt wrote quickly, "DON'T WANT YOU GOING OVER THERE RIGHT NOW, UNDERSTAND?"

"No, no, I don't. The cops said they were done with it."

"I WANT YOU HERE IN THE HOUSE."

Oh, so that's what it was. The judge wanted him where he could see him since Mark couldn't HEAR him when he yelled that there was a car heading toward him or when he shot out the tires. "Judge, nothing is gonna happen. You know, there are better armed guards at the gate now to keep the wolves away from the door. We're both safe and sound."

"CAN YOU JUST FOR ONCE LISTEN TO ME."

"Cute, Hardcastle. Wish I could, but that's not possible right now."

Milt scowled up his face. "YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN."

Mark knew he wasn't going to win this argument. "Okay, fine. So, what, should I clean the pool?"

"STAY IN THE HOUSE."

Stay in the house, Mark sighed. He didn't want to stay in the house. Just because he couldn't hear the bad guys… "Okay, what do you want me to do? The laundry? I have to do something. I can't keep sitting around."

Milt walked over to the TV and turned it on.

"Judge, the TV? Come on, you know that just makes me feel useless. Some of those pictures without words don't make any sense."

Hardcastle spun around with a tape in his hand.

"What's that?"

He turned around and put it in the VCR and it started to play.

"Judge, really…" Mark leaned forward in the chair and put his elbows on his knees and then let his head fall into his open palms.

Milt slid in a note in between his elbows. "JUST WATCH THIS, KIDDO. IT'S A GOOD MOVIE."

"Unless it has subtitles, I'm really not interested," he murmured to the ground.

Milt was busy tapping his shoulder, attempting to get him to watch. McCormick finally relented, sat back in the chair. The movie that Hardcastle had found was indeed a silent movie, filled with subtitles.

"All right, fine, but…"

"NO BUTS! JUST WATCH. I'M MAKING SUPPER."

Mark sat in the incessant quiet for a few uncomfortable minutes and felt his anger growing. He understood Hardcastle being scared. He got it that the judge didn't know how to handle what was going on, so he was doing the only thing he could think of – keeping Mark in his sights. He hated being deaf, he hated being watched, sometimes being waited on hand and foot like he was some sort of damaged goods, and most of all he hated watching Hardcastle turn into some sort of anxious, nervous and overly protective worry-wort. He stood up and went to look out of the window over to the gatehouse. As much as he wanted to go over there for a look-see, he knew he sort-of promised the judge that he'd wait. He turned back around and saw the Judge's desk covered with various files. _What was all this about? _It wasn't just files on Kerns. It was files on other people who walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom. Wait, no, some of these weren't the judge's files. Some were copies of police files. Frank had given Hardcastle some more files? When had he done that?

Anderson, Katz, both known associates of Kerns, there were notes stuck to each folder, each note detailing something about each bad guy, each one in the judge's handwriting… "You're doing this on your own, Hardcastle?" he mumbled as he reached down and picked up the top file. It was more information about Kerns. "Damn you, Milt, you're giving up on me too."

Mark sat down in the judge's chair and starting reading every word in every file. He didn't get very far. The judge came in and spotted him, but before he could pull out his pad to write on. Mark looked up and saw him standing there. He stood up, still holding a file in his hand. "What the hell are you doing? You're doing this without me? I'm deaf, not stupid."

'I'M LOOKING AT THE FILES ON KERNS FOR FRANK. TRYING TO FIND MORE CONNECTIONS."

"All by yourself," Mark muttered. "I'm not useless, you know. My other senses are doing just fine. I can see it all over your face that you're lying to me, I can feel these files," he waved the one he had in his hand. "And I can smell a rat." He slammed the file back down on the desk and made his way out of the den. He stopped in the doorway, brushing past the judge and with his back to him he said, "I'm going over to the gatehouse. Just leave me alone, please. That's all I'm asking for. I'm not going to run away like a child, I just want to be alone."

_**Chapter 26**_

The walk to the gatehouse wasn't therapeutic in the slightest for either of them. Milt watched him go, unable to believe that all the kid wanted was to be alone. Someone had just tried to kill him! The gatehouse -- Milt reminded himself that he had to call the contractors to come out and repair the damage. The gaping hole in the wall, the sheetrock and glass all over the yard, at least it wasn't what was left of Mark all over the yard. He also needed to hire someone to bring in some dirt and sod to patch up the yard where the tires had torn into it as well.

They would have run Mark down, ran him over and not stopped.

Milt hadn't been that scared in a long time, even when the sniper was shooting at them in the den. Mark couldn't hear him yell, and that car was barreling down on him relentlessly. He didn't hear the gunfire. It wasn't until the car drove over the terrace that Mark noticed it at all. The kid was frustrated enough with everything, the not knowing if the deafness was permanent, the fact the bad guys were after him, two attacks in as many days, the fact that Milt was being way too over-protective, not letting him help out with the investigation as much as he wanted to…

They both stood at a precipitous place and something was about to blow.

Hardcastle went back to the kitchen. His appetite was gone, so he went to turn off what he had started to cook.

In a few minutes he heard the lawn mower start up. He shrugged thinking that the kid had decided to work off his anger. He'd just better not aggravate those sore ribs.

OOOOO

Meanwhile over at the gatehouse, the volcano known as Mark McCormick was about to blow. Everything stemmed from the fact that he felt like he was walking on eggshells all because he lost his hearing. The first thing Mark spotted was the gasoline-powered, noisier-than-snot, Lawn Boy lawnmower. He hated every inch of that nasty machine. It rode rough, it stank, the paint was peeling off of it, and there it sat, pretty as you please, right out in front of the house – HIS house -- just where he had left it before they went out to lunch and before he almost became a new hood ornament for a Caprice. That was his first target. No matter how much it was going to aggravate his ribs, this was going to be his first act of defiance. He walked up to it and bent over and pulled the cord to start it, clutched his side briefly as he stood up straight and began feeling the ground rumble under his feet and smelling the putrid mix of gas and oil. That was the extent of him knowing that the machine was indeed running. He couldn't hear the ragged timbre of the engine. He couldn't hear that tone that lay just underneath every engine as it ran. He sneered at it, left it to run out and continued into his house. He violently pushed the heavy door open, letting it slam against the wall, watching it fall off the hinges. Great. The car had bent the door frame as well as driving into his living room.

Everything was in shambles. The chair was in pieces, the sofa was knocked over and there was a hole gouged underneath it from the front bumper of the car. The small kitchen table – well, there used to be a small kitchen table in there. The car had destroyed his living room, and he was angry.

Dammit, he was more than angry!

He was absolutely sick of the utter quiet!

He couldn't stand the incredible silence that was around him. He could still feel some of the vibrations of the lawnmower engine, he wanted to 'feel' more noise. What else could he do in here?

Aha, first there was a portable radio that he turned on, and turned up full volume. Next up was the 19" TV over in the corner. He did the same thing to it. Then it was into the kitchen, he quickly turned on the faucet, letting the water run full. And then proceeded to turn on every appliance he had that made some sort of noise. The blender, the microwave, the coffee maker, the dishwasher. Everything on and running at top speed.

From there he headed into the bathroom, where the shower and the faucet went on full blast. He flicked the knob on his electric razor and plugged in the hair dryer and cranked it up high.

He felt the noise, the glorious, wonderful, vibrating noise. Anything was better than nothing.

Finally he headed upstairs, toward his stereo. He pushed the on button and felt the vibration on the floor. Then he turned the levels for bass and treble as high as they would go and finally put the volume up all the way. It was set on the radio right now. It didn't matter, he couldn't hear anything.

It was all so damned frustrating! He just wanted to hit something!

Without thinking, he grabbed the handle off a Hardcastle For Mayor sign and slammed it into the bookshelves. The wood splintered and his books fell to the floor in a clutter. He whirled around and smashed the nearby mirror, completely ignoring the screaming from his ribs. He shattered the closet door with a single thrust. He shattered the shelf with his records…

He saw his collection of records slide to the ground and he paused, breathing fiercely, grabbed the first one in his hands, The Rolling Stones, Out of Our Heads album from 1965. He slid it out of the sleeve and hurled it across the room, smashing it to pieces, almost growling in frustration as he did so. One by one, he was going to do the same to all of them.

Milt had heard the, to put it mildly, commotion and went to investigate. The police officers were about to go into the gatehouse, but he shooed them away. He had a feeling he knew what was going on, and they didn't need more witnesses to how out of control their lives were at the moment. He shut off the power mower then headed inside to all of the offending noise. He stood in the doorway and ran his hands over his face before continuing. How was he going to handle all of this?

The area was in shambles. Broken bits of furniture, paperwork scattered all over the floor, personal mementos lying on the floor after being shaken off their shelves, Milt picked up a few things, placed the paperwork on the sofa, noting as he did so that it was a lot of junk mail like ads for mail-in rebates or Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes or notices from the local college. Why was the kid hanging on to this stuff?

Appliance by noisy appliance, he went through the lower level, shutting down and turning off everything that was running. As he came out of the bathroom, he heard the dull sound of plastic being broken in between the words of the songs blasting out of the speakers.

He headed up the stairs, still not knowing how he was going to approach him or what kind of argument they'd have over all this. He couldn't blame the kid though. He just kept trying to put himself into McCormick's shoes. What if he was the one who was deaf, and things had happened to him like they had to Mark? The kid had kept it all most inside all that time – he had to explode eventually. However, arguing with him or hollering at him was the last thing he wanted to do.

Hardcastle got to the top of the loft, and that's when he saw McCormick systematically shattering his record collection into smithereens. "I'm sorry I did all of this to ya, kiddo," he mumbled as he turned down the volume on the stereo and then switched it off.

McCormick had another record in his hands and was about to turn around and fling it at the opposite wall. As he turned, he caught sight of Milt and simply let the record fall out of his hands onto the floor, where it managed to not break. Milt thought he was done, but he was wrong. Mark's expression changed again. His face hardened in a way Milt had never seen and he got violently angry and he stepped on it to break it.

This was a violence he'd never thought Mark was capable of. Barely controlled feelings of anger and frustration wrapped up in utter rage that had been percolating inside him all that time --

Milt wrote down, "FEEL BETTER?"

McCormick closed his eyes, clenched his fist and looked skyward. "Stop it! Just… stop it, Judge. Does any of this look like I feel better?"

Milt held out his hands as if to say, okay, I'll back off. And he started back down the stairs.

Mark called out to him. "Stop ME, Hardcastle. Yell at me, PLEASE, I can't stand this nice, polite, quiet nonsense any more. Quit coddling me and accepting this behavior. Don't you get it?" He scoffed at him.

"YOU WANT ME TO YELL AT YOU?" Milt wrote down the words that he didn't really understand.

"Yes, I WANT you to yell, I want you to treat me like you've always treated me. Look at what I just did in here. Any other normal day, you would have my head for this. I need you to do it now, more than ever." He closed his eyes and took his left hand over his mouth. "I need what I had, so yes, please, YELL AT ME."

"BUT YOU CAN'T HEAR ME IF I YELL."

Mark's laugh wasn't his usual one. It was one that was full of rage. It almost scared Milt. "I just told you that I still have my other senses. I can SEE you, Judge. I can FEEL your anger. Jeez! I'm not dead! So yell at me! And yell at me like you mean it. I am still right here, me, McCormick. I. Just. Can't. Hear."

Sudden realization dawned on Milt. The kid wanted 'normal!' That's what it was. In an un-normal situation, he needed to know that Milt didn't think he was anything other than he always had been. He needed that more than he needed notes. The judge wanted to kick himself! He'd been so stupid!

OK, if the kid wanted to be yelled at… the judge started off slow, his own frustration quickly building into a profanity laced tirade that made his face turn red, made his eyes bulge out and even though Mark didn't hear a word of it, he clearly got the message to start cleaning up the mess he'd made and somehow that he'd have his pay deducted for any sort of structural damage he caused to the gatehouse, less what the car had already done.

Not that Milt would do that, but hey, if that's what the kid needed from him, that's what he'd give him. Yelling at him was… normal.

The Judge left him to his chores.

And for the first time in weeks, the Judge actually did muster a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 27**_

About two hours later, McCormick had cleaned up the bedroom and was busy cleaning up the mess the Caprice made in the kitchen. The small room had heated up in the late day sun, so he went and slid the screen door that led out to the patio open to let the cooler evening air come in. The subtle calmness of the view caused him to stop his cleaning and stand there looking out. Police officers were at a respectable distance away but within gunshot distance. They saw him and gave him a wave. They must have thought he and the judge were absolutely nuts, but then again, most of the police they worked with already knew they were nuts. Trashing a gatehouse and yelling at each other probably didn't even send off any alarms to any of the police.

It had felt good though. Normal. Maybe normal in a way Mark didn't think he'd ever feel again.

He placed his hand on the screen… there was a vibration. He looked at the corner of the door and saw a big fly knocking against it. Knocking repeatedly, as if he could open the door and get out…

He didn't hear Hardcastle come back in to check on his progress as Milt entered. The judge saw him standing still in the kitchen, just staring, his back to him.

Clearing his throat wouldn't work, neither would knocking or calling out his name. Worst of all he knew if he tapped him on the shoulder, he'd not only jump, he'd most likely be annoyed that Milt came out to check on him.

But then, out of the blue, McCormick started to talk. "It's okay, Judge, I know you're there." Mark said, turning his head around momentarily to see him and prove his hunch. He went back to staring at the screen door and provided an explanation. "When you come in the front, opening the door up like that, the wind, well, it causes like a back draft of sorts in here. I could feel it on my face. The breeze feels good."

The judge was impressed with his newly mentioned abilities.

McCormick continued to speak, "You know they say your other senses are heightened. Well, either it's really true or you just learn to pay more attention. I bet you're wondering why I'm standing here staring at the door?" The judge came up beside him and nodded. Mark gave him a tired smile, and he placed his fingers on the screen. "Listen," he said, turning to eye up the judge.

Milt concentrated and couldn't hear a thing, except for maybe the soft breeze if that's what he was talking about, but that was more of a feel, not a sound. He gave McCormick a shrug, to say that he didn't know. Mark then took the judge's hand and placed it on the screen and waited.

"There's a fly in the corner, here, on the screen, trying to get out. He's one of those really big, old flies, probably ready to die. The funny thing is I know he's making that humming, buzzing sound and I _know_ he's bumped into that screen at least a dozen times since I spotted him. Judge, I can hear it, you know, but I just can't _hear_ it. But we're both after the same thing, we want out of the predicaments we're in." He walked over to the door and slid it open a crack and shooed the fly out. "At least he got his wish."

They were both silent. Milt finally heard it too.

Milt took out the pad of paper and scribbled down a quick note.

"FEEL BETTER?"

"Yeah, a little bit. Sorry about trashing the gatehouse."

Milt wrote again.

"DON'T BE. I GET THAT YOU NEEDED TO DO THAT AND YOU NEEDED ME TO YELL AT YOU. THINGS WILL GET BACK TO NORMAL SOON."

This time, Mark's laugh was much lighter. "Wish you could guarantee that."

"SO DO I," was the answer.

Then he wrote something else.

"TRASH THE GATEHOUSE AGAIN, AND I'LL KICK YOUR KEESTER INTO NEXT WEEK. GOT IT?"

Mark looked up at the judge's almost smiling face. He really wasn't mad that Mark had trashed the place. He really did understand even though he might not like it. "Got it, Judge."

"GOOD. SUPPER'S READY. LET'S GO."

OOOOO

They walked past the garage and Mark paused to take a quick look at the Coyote and he let out a sigh. There she still sat since he'd come home from the hospital. What he'd give for Flip to still be around. He'd let him take a crack at finding whatever the problem was. There was no one else he'd trust to work on the Coyote.

Milt had gotten a few steps ahead before he realized that Mark was standing and staring at the car. The Coyote. Of course! Why hadn't Milt thought of that before? Their food had waited this long. It could wait indefinitely. They could always order up a pizza later on if need be. He took the few steps back toward Mark and put his arm on his back for a quick tap and motioned for him to follow him.

"I thought we were going to eat?"

Hardcastle pointed to the car.

"What? There's something wrong with the engine. You said you heard something. I shouldn't drive it 'til I can fix it, and I don't know when that's gonna be. If you want to go somewhere, we'll take the truck."

Milt walked over to the bench and found a piece of scrap paper to write on. "NOT DRIVE, PIX."

"Pix? Hardcastle you really need to work on printing."

"FIX, FIX, FIX."

McCormick let out a heavy sigh, "I can't fix it, I can't _hear _what's wrong with it, and I'm not letting some snot-nosed mechanic touch her."

"I'LL NEAR IT AND YOU PIX IT."

Mark mustered up a laugh, while holding out his right hand and motioning toward the latest transposed mess. "Near and Pix? I'm beginning to wonder if you invented the Jumble in the daily paper? Good thing I can usually figure out what it is you're trying to say."

"HEAR AND FIX, OKAY?" Hardcastle dropped the pad and picked up a wrench and waited for Mark's hand to open so he could set the tool in it.

Mark waited, in no rush to commit to something he wasn't completely sold on. He stared at the car he loved and even took a step toward it and put his left hand on the hood. "I don't know if I can do this, Milt," he quietly admitted. He stood there shaking his head no. "I can't hear it. No, this is a bad idea. I love this car too much to wreck it.

This was the moment that Milt didn't know he should have been looking for. Maybe, just maybe, Mark was really ready to talk about everything. Right now, he had to be the supportive, non-judgmental friend, the one who would help him out no matter what. No matter what Milt had written down on the notes or tried to tell Mark, it was the actions that he needed to see. Milt wrote some more. "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WRECK IT. YOU HAVE TO TRY."

Mark lightly pounded his fist on the hood, the debate was raging inside his own head. Something was preventing him from trying. "I'm scared."

Scared?

"OF WHAT? THIS IS YOUR CAR."

"Not of the car. I'm scared of being like this," he pointed to his ears, "Of being deaf for the rest of my life."

Milt had been right when he told Frank that when the sniper attacked, Mark suddenly realized what it was he wasn't hearing. Their lives could drastically change if _this_ was how their lives were going to be from now on. Still, Mark McCormick, the eternal optimist – Milt wasn't going to let him despair. Even if this was all part of the process of dealing with losing a sense, Milt was going to be there for him.

"SO YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE UP ON EVERYTHING?"

"No, of course not," he was getting angry at Milt, "Can you let me get used to this?"

"NO."

McCormick threw his hands up in defeat. "No, you can't, or no, you won't?

Milt held up the same sign, "NO."

"I don't get you, Hardcastle, you follow me around endlessly and treat me like I'm a two year old and I push you away and now when I ask you to give me a break, you say no?"

"NOT LETTING YOU QUIT."

"Judge, I need to hear the engine in order to fix it, otherwise I might make things worse." He turned away from the car. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't."

The judge walked over right in front of him and grabbed for his right hand and set the wrench in it. "You can!" Milt said, while he pointed to his own ear and repeated, so that Mark could read his lips.

Mark clutched the wrench for a long moment, turned back slowly, took a deep breath and opened the hood. He stared at his very familiar engine… he knew his engine. He began by touching every possible place he could wriggle his fingers and hands into. That was always the first step, he reminded himself. Before you even start it up, Skid, take a tour of it, he remembered Flip's words and said them out loud. "Take a tour of it." Milt watched him with pride. Before he 'toured' it, he pushed up his sleeves. He knew he was about to get his hands dirty. Everything was just where he knew it would be. Nothing abnormal from the tour. He knew it was time. He knew what it _felt_ like when it ran. He motioned toward the judge and resigned to himself to not give up, "Crank her up," he said.

The judge reached into the driver's side and cranked her up, as ordered. Mark placed his hand on the side of the car and concentrated. He could _feel_ the roaring vibration. He could almost feel when there was something different. He shut his eyes and concentrated on his hands.

Nothing. He stood back and watched the motor from the front.

"PINGING. MY SIDE" Milt wrote down.

McCormick nodded and moved over toward the passenger side of the car and placed his hands on the side and waited. Same thing, he closed his eyes and waited and concentrated on what he could feel. There. Something was off. "Press down on the gas for a few seconds and hold it," he shouted to the judge.

Milt pressed his foot down as Mark felt, then he peered inside, then back to feeling… there, it was a brief sensation of something interrupting the vibrations. He motioned for the judge to stop accelerating. He looked… and immediately saw the problem! It wasn't serious, it wouldn't harm the car, but for HIS car to be making that noise was unacceptable. He hadn't had a chance to finish everything he had been working on before they went to the warehouse and this must have been the little problem that was beginning to surface.

"Kill the engine," he shouted again. Was he speaking loud enough or too loud? It was odd – he had no sense of his voice's volume. Sure, the judge had told him not to yell when he was in the hospital, but to not know how loud you're talking? "Am I yelling at ya?"

Milt took a moment to jot down a note. "HELL NO, I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING BUT THE ENGINE. THIS THING'S ALWAYS BEEN A MONSTER." He laughed as he saw the kid reading it.

As soon as the engine shut down and all the moving parts stopped moving, Mark began to get to work on tightening the fittings.

OOOOO

Milt moved toward the front of the car so he could get a good look at what Mark was doing. He watched his movements… yep, there it was. There was that bit of McCormick-style confidence that had been gone since the explosion. The kid was the maestro of his own kind of particular symphony. And this little experiment was becoming a masterpiece. Every movement McCormick made was fluid and assured. No tension. No hesitation. Trashing the gatehouse HAD been the right thing to do to vent all that frustration. That was merely preparing to write the composition. This was the concerto.

Mark knew cars, but more importantly, he knew _this_ car. Flip Johnson had designed a masterpiece. There was something ironic about how fate had weaved their lives together and how the Coyote was the hinge that they spun around. Had Flip not designed this car, then Martin Cody wouldn't have killed him for it. If Barbara Johnson had not asked Mark to get the car back after her dad's murder, then Mark wouldn't have been caught, arrested and brought before Hardcastle. The last three years would have been vastly different for both men. Although the Coyote represented choices and fate and a lucky break for Milt, it was something altogether different for Mark. The car was the physical embodiment of a dream he didn't think the young man had given up on -- racing. Flip believed in Mark. He had probably been the first person to really care about the kid. He helped foster the natural ability Mark had for racing and honed it into a powerful skill, and this car had been the tool that was going to help take both Flip and Mark to the Winner's Circle.

Milt didn't have to imagine any of it. He'd seen Mark race. The kid was more than good. Racing was in his blood. Placing a car in his hands was like watching a maestro conduct a world symphony orchestra. Every movement was precise, every maneuver was calculated and sure. But it went far beyond that. It wasn't just racing. It was the ability to completely control a half-ton blend of power and metal and to do it so expertly that it gave the driver and car union its elegance. If Mark went back to racing, he'd be one of the best on the track. Milt had no doubts about it.

Yet racing would have to be part of their future. Right then, he watched his friend expertly make the necessary adjustments needed to get rid of the pinging. Adjustments, it wasn't just the car that needed to go through them. If only everything wasn't happening at the same time, if Mark could just learn to deal with one problem at a time before the next hit him -- but their luck didn't run that way. Milt himself was going to have to adjust for the time being as well. He had to learn to deal with Mark's frustration and anger better and stop being a mother-hen. He had to let Mark wander out of his sight, AFTER they dealt with the bad guys. For now, no matter what Mark said, he was staying firmly within the judge's eyesight. No way was he willing to risk another car trying to run him down. The kid would just have to deal with having a pseudo-shadow until it was over with.

"Start the engine again," Mark told him.

Hardcastle did as he was told and fired up the Coyote. The ping was still there. Milt quickly went for the paper.

Mark was quick to cut him off, "Never mind, I know it's still there. It's okay. Shut it off, there's just one more thing." The judge turned the key off and waited for Mark to finish. Mark peered around the hood as he finished up with a final tweak of a screwdriver. "Okay, try it again."

Milt walked back to the driver side door, reached in and turned the key. He watched as Mark placed his hand on the side of the car and felt the engine's vibrations. Milt listened for him, and he didn't hear the pinging.

"Give her some gas," Mark said as he watched the engine.

Milt pressed his foot on the gas pedal and kept listening. No pinging.

"What do you hear?" Mark called out to him.

Milt just gave him a thumbs-up sign. For the first time in a long while, Mark had a genuine smile on his face.

Milt shut down the engine and Mark closed the hood. Mark shook his head at Milt and signed something at him. Hardcastle needed to find out what that meant. It wasn't the first time the kid had used it. It looked like a wave.

"CAN WE EAT NOW?" Milt wrote on the pad.

"Yeah, I am a little hungry." He walked over to the bench and laid down the tools he'd been using on the car and picked up a rag to wipe the grease off his hands. As he picked up the cloth, he uncovered the headphones and walkman. His eyes narrowed and focused on them, and Hardcastle saw exactly what he was staring at. He picked up the headphones and ran his fingers over them. "Guess maybe I'll have to bequeath these to you," he handed them over to Milt. "For now, anyway," he seemed to add as an afterthought. "If my hearing doesn't come back, they're no good to me."

Hardcastle's shifted his weight from one foot to the other and he held up his hand as to not accept them.

"Come on, it's for your Dixieland. That way you won't be able to bug anyone else with that stuff."

Hardcastle was quickly scrawling down a note. "JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS."

"Nah, just realizing the options. And facing facts is more like it."

"CAR!!" Milt was quick to remind him.

"Yeah, I know, I fixed my car. I know I can drive, but I'm not so sure I could race without being able to hear. I doubt if the racing commission would let me."

"YOU COT A IOT OF IALENIS."

Mark frowned as he tried to read the latest. "Okay, even I can't unscramble that one."

"GOT LOT TALENTS. RACING'S JUST ONE." Milt rewrote. Then he added, "YOU KNOW CARS. YOU CAN FIX THEM."

"Maybe so, but it sure seems like my options are quickly diminishing." Then, with more exuberance in his voice than Milt had head since the explosion, Mark said, "Anyway, let's go eat, believe it or not, I'm hungry."

_**Chapter 28**_

There was that phone of his ringing again. He already knew he was a dead man as far as they were concerned so what was the need for them to keep hassling him? He finally picked up the phone after the seventh ring.

"Yeah, what?"

"_There, there, Mr. Kerns. Is that anyway to answer your phone_?"

"What do you want?"

"_We want what we always want, Mr. Kerns. We want perfection. And for you, that means we have decided to give you one more opportunity for completion of the task which we've already discussed ad nauseaum. We have arranged a final payment from you_."

"A final payment? And how am I supposed to do that. Some of the inventory blew up at the warehouse, and the Feds are looking into my other holdings or did you forget that? I can't touch any of my money or that'll alert them to where I am. What am I supposed to pay you with?"

"_The mutual thorns in our sides have proven to be… luckier than anticipated. Your commandeering Mr. Katz without authorization and the subsequent attempt at rendering these thorns ineffective have failed. Your payment is to deal with the situation personally. You've got twenty-four hours to make payment, Mr. Kerns. See to it that you do_."

The phone went dead and Kerns angrily slammed it back in the holder. They wanted payment in blood. These guys were nuts, whoever they were. They already said they were going to kill him, like hell he was going to try to scrounge up money that he owed them. Where would he get that kind of dough now even if they hadn't just _given_ him an assignment in lieu of payment? One of his sources had told him that everyone on the streets knew to stay away from Kerns. No one was going to give him a loan of 600,000. And even then, that wouldn't be enough to satisfy the 'voice' on the phone. That was just a ballpark figure on the inventory that had gone up in flames during the explosion.

He shouldn't have used so much of the inventory just to find out who the federal agent was that had infiltrated his organization.

Kerns peeked out from the window and squinted from the brightness of the sun. Why in the hell had Hardcastle decided to come after him? He didn't get it. There were no outstanding warrants on him. He didn't understand any of it. There had to be a reason. Think, damnit, think Tim. Hardcastle had to have a reason, and it couldn't just be the fact that he'd walked out of his courtroom on a technicality, right? No, there had to be a valid reason. That's just the kind of guy Hardcastle was, right?

He let the dark curtain fall back. Even Hardcastle didn't know what was below the surface on this thing. Yeah, Kerns thought, there was no way he knew. Hell, Kerns had been involved for the better part of four years now and he didn't have a clue as to the entire story. Then another thought popped into his head. Maybe, just maybe, the Feds were playing a game too. Maybe their cover got blown and someone suggested Hardcastle to them. Now that would be a perfect cover. Deflect the noise away from them and pin it on to a vigilante-type ex-Judge who fought for everything true-blue American. It was so perfect that Kerns couldn't even really believe it could all be true.

Anyway, it didn't really matter. Like the voice said, he was a dead man if he didn't come through with this, and he wasn't about to waste the rest of his life clamoring for money he'd never get. His face lost all emotion. If it was all going to end, he was going to take care of one last thing.

Hardcastle and McCormick.

OOOOO

The ringing telephone interrupted Milt's almost peaceful breakfast. He reached behind him and grabbed the handset. "Hello?"

"_Milt, it's Frank. How are you_?"

"We're fine. Eating breakfast." He mouthed the words "IT'S FRANK" to McCormick who shrugged and went back to eating.

"_I heard from my guys that you two had a bit of an explosive situation yesterday_."

Milt chuckled. "Yeah. Hurricane Mark went through the gatehouse and trashed it, including his entire record collection, I don't think he's realized that yet, and I hate to think how much that's gonna cost us to replace. I think it did him good though. He was almost yelling at me."

"_I can imagine. The kid was too wound up as it was. Look, I'm calling this early to let you know something. Those guys that tried to run Mark down? We were right. They didn't work for Kerns. We got an I.D on the one survivor. His name's Peter Ossman. He's a former infantry sergeant in Nam, got a battlefield commission to lieutenant, made it all the way to major before retiring from the military. Guess who he's employed by_?"

"Don't tell me. U.S. Exporters."

"_Good guess. Look, if Katz is right, then Kerns is running out of time. He may try something desperate or his partners will have him killed_."

Milt sighed. How desperate were these guys to try to kill them ON the estate? Why not wait until they were driving somewhere or…

Because they HADN'T been driving anywhere. They'd been staying close to home for the most part.

Milt hadn't wanted to expose Mark for a while so he could deal with his deafness…

The sniper, the one they thought had been good at one time but lost his touch and was hired by Kerns, had failed to kill them which, in turn, confirmed the fact that these particular bad guys were well funded, well organized and well connected – basically, they were the major leagues. Police were everywhere, getting another sniper on short notice may have been difficult, so they had to make a direct attack? They just hadn't counted on Mark being as resourceful as he was when dodging bullets or the judge being accurate with a shotgun…

"_Milt_?"

"Yeah, Frank, just putting it all together. What about Anderson and Katz? "

"_The district attorney has agreed to put them in witness protection in exchange for their testimony. The problem is that their word isn't all that good as far as convicting Kerns. We need something big to corroborate their stories and give us a paper trail to what Kerns was up to for us to get a warrant. Oh, there is one other thing – Katz mentioned that you two really opened up a powder keg and know more than you think you know and could lead the Feds right to them. I don't know how. I do NOT want either one of you leaving the estate. Stay put. These guys could try again, and at least you can be protected there._"

Milt didn't like that advice, but he knew it was what he had to do. "Yeah. Okay. Let me know when you find something."

"_Will do,"_ and the phone call ended.

This was BIG. The judge knew that even though they'd taken on some really big bad guys in their time, this was something rather unique. They were just supposed to have been on the sidelines and hardly involved, and now they were in the cross hairs.

He looked over at his young friend who was pouring himself another bowl of cereal. Whatever else trashing the gatehouse had done, it had let Mark exorcise some frustration and fear. That much was certain. He had woken up that morning with a smile and maybe more of a 'can-do' attitude. Milt knew that it wasn't healthy to keep all that pent-up anger inside. He should have known it when they first came home. But had he done anything to help Mark out? Nope, he just kept on being a bit of an over-protective mother-hen, someone who didn't want to get Mark angry or upset – boy, that didn't work out at all, did it? He should have known better! Those two could yell loud enough to raise the roof, and sometimes, that was the best thing for them to do. Mark had been right. Milt had been spewing the too-polite nonsense for too long. No wonder Mark had needed to bash the living daylights out of something. His usual way to vent wasn't allowing him to despite the attempts on his life and the general bad luck they'd had lately.

Milt really could kick himself.

However, that morning, things seemed a little bit more 'normal' than they had been.

"How many more times do you think they'll try to kill us?" McCormick asked as he shoveled the breakfast cereal down his throat. The kid really could put away a lot of food really fast. Wait a minute, was that his second or third bowl of cereal?

Milt turned back to his breakfast, and then slid the pad over so he could write.

"HOW MANY PAD CUYS IN THE VORLD?"

"Probably as many as there are people who can spell correctly. I hope you meant BAD, GUYS and WORLD."

Hardcastle was more interested in reading the morning paper than trying to become a spelling All-Star.

"Is there anything new about the warehouse?"

"CHECKING. PROBABLY NEWS IS TOO OLD NOW."

"What else does Frank think?"

Sneak. He knew that Milt and Frank were talking about the case. "TOLD YA, THINKS WE'RE ONLY TOUCHING THE SURFACE, THE BAD GUYS ARE WORSE THAN WE THOUGHT, MAY BE UNTOUCHABLE."

McCormick had finished his Wheaties and he sat back in the chair. He closed his eyes.

Now it was Hardcastle's turn to glance over and see why his always talkative friend was suddenly clamming up.

"SOMETHING WRONG?" Milt tapped his arm and Mark read the note.

"No."

"WHAT? YOUR HEAD HURT? RIBS?"

"No, I feel fine. Well, as fine as can be expected. Ribs are still a bit sore if I move the wrong way, but I'll live. Judge, why don't we do some more digging at the warehouse? Maybe we can figure something else out. We can do it, we've done it before."

Hardcastle started violently shaking his head no and he got up from the table to bring his dishes over to the sink.

"Why not?" For now he remained in his seat. "Don't act like you're not hearing me. How many times do you want me to remind you that I'm the one who's deaf, remember?"

Milt walked over and grabbed the pen. "YOU KNOW WHY NOT."

McCormick agreed, "I want you to tell me. Say it to my face."

"YOU CAN'T HEAR IT, IF I DO THAT."

McCormick was tired of the game, "Then write it down, and write it so I can read it."

Milt ripped off what he had written and started on fresh sheet. "FRANK WANTS US TO STAY HERE, WANTS US AS OUT OF IT AS POSSIBLE, CAN'T PUT YOU IN JEOPARDY."

"Are you kidding me? Jeopardy is my middle name since I hooked up with you. Try that excuse again."

"YOUR HEARING, THAT'S WHY OKAY?"

"Look, you've already told me time and again that I have no brains when it comes to chasing bad guys which we both know is not the case, so the way I see it, having no ears to hear ought to be a picnic. You and I started this and you and I need to finish it. Whatta ya say?"

"STILL HAVE NO BRANS."

"Yeah, maybe no brans, but I do have brains. Look, Judge, these guys have tried to kill me twice already. I don't like being a sitting duck. We've never done it before, there's no sense in doing it now. I say we take the fight to them."

Mark took a sip of coffee before saying, "Besides, Frank is on to something about Kerns' bosses."

"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?"

"I told you. Neither one of you can lie for shit. Talk to me, Hardcase. Recap what Frank told you."

Milt sat still and thought for a moment…. Enough. He took out the pen and pad and wrote down a long note as legibly as he could.

_This is as far as we know. That snitch named Toby Anderson tracked down who you were and where you lived. He told Kerns then Kerns hired Ray Katz to kill both of us. Seems Kerns remembered me and knows what we do. Frank's I.D'd the one survivor of the two guys who tried to run you down, and it turns out they work for the people he thinks Kerns is partnered with, U.S. Exporters. They're the big fish, and they think you're going to lead the Feds to them_.

Mark read the note. "How am I going to lead the Feds to them? I don't know who they are."

_Anderson and Katz are giving up information on Kerns in exchange for witness protection. Frank is getting a warrant for Kerns' arrest but without knowing where he is and with only the word of a drug-dealing snitch and a sniper, he's not getting very far. He needs something more. If he had a paper trail, that would be something, but the guy's too slippery. He hasn't left one._

"Paper trail…" Mark said out loud. Something was teasing at his memory, what was it? Papers… papers… a sudden memory flashed in his mind. "Judge, what exactly was I doing in that warehouse?"

"TAKING PICTURES, BRINGING OUT ONE OF THE BOXES."

"Why was I taking pictures?"

"TO GET PICTURED EVIDENCE AGAINST KERNS."

Something else began tugging at Mark's memory, papers… papers… "Judge, where's the camera?"

Milt thought for a moment, "In my jacket pocket. It's in the closet. I completely forgot about the camera!"

Mark must have figured out what he was saying by reading lips. "Go get it. Let's take it to the photo lab at the police station. Maybe they can find something. I think I got a picture of something."

"Guess Frank will just have to get angry that we left the house," Milt muttered to himself.

_**Chapter 29**_

Kerns waited somewhat impatiently several blocks away from the estate. Pretending he was changing the spark plugs in his white Dodge truck hadn't garnered any unexpected attention from either passers-by or police. In fact, the very fact that the police weren't the least bit interested in what he was doing gave him a little hope that this would be an easy job.

He kept up the act of working under his hood until he saw the judge's GMC truck come out from the estate and drive down the PCH, two unmarked police cars following closely behind, one of the police cars that had been stationed on the PCH following in line as well.

Three police cars?

He slammed the hood down, got into his pickup and took off after them – remaining a respectable distance away.

There was oncoming traffic, he'd have to wait for his moment. The PCH was his best bet of completing his assignment.

OOOOO

The photo tech took a look at the poor, old, almost-coming-apart camera. She held it in her hands as if she were holding a fragile egg. Then, she looked up at the three men standing in her lab. "You're kidding, right?"

Milt shrugged his shoulders. "We forgot we had it."

"Forget 'forgetting' about it. This poor camera looks like it's been through an explosion."

"It has," Frank told her. "A few weeks ago. Look, do you think you can get anything off the film?"

The tech took a close look at it, "If I do, it'll be a miracle. This could take a few days."

"Any way to speed that up?" Frank asked. "We're hoping there's something on one of those pictures that can lead us to some smugglers."

The tech studied the camera carefully. "I'll try, but there's no guarantee I'll be able to save any of them. The film itself could be burned or singed or exposed." She looked up at the three men. "I'll do my best."

Milt wrote out a quick note to Mark. "TECH SAYS MAY TAKE A FEW DAYS. DON'T KNOW IF FILM IS OKAY."

Mark nodded his head and followed Milt and Frank out the door. Once outside, they picked up their police detail and started walking down the corridor. Suddenly, a vivid picture image of something Mark had forgot flashed through his mind.

The workbench.

Bills of lading.

Shipping tickets.

He stopped suddenly in the hallway, the police officers stopping automatically as well.

"Sir?" one of them called for the lieutenant.

Frank turned and saw Mark staring at the floor. "Milt…"

Both walked back and Milt tugged on Mark's arm.

"WHAT IS IT KIDDO?" he wrote.

"When I was in the warehouse, there was a workbench with a dismantled VCR on it. It was sitting on a lot of paperwork. I know there were bills of lading and shipping tickets there."

Frank wrote down a quick note. "DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT WAS WRITTEN ON THEM?"

"No, I just remember I saw them. I took pictures of them... "

"What?" Milt asked, forgetting to write down the question.

"Something else… something about paperwork," Mark said as he tried to remember. Something was teasing the back of his memory, something… "Paperwork for the greater good. That's what Kerns said in the warehouse."

Frank started putting a few clues together. "Greater good?" He grabbed his pad again. "WHAT EXACTLY DID KERNS SAY?"

Mark concentrated. "He had some paperwork for the greater good to finish up in his office. Then he went upstairs. Why?"

"THAT TERM. GREATER GOOD. BOTH ANDERSON AND KATZ USED IT. NEED TO DO SOME RESEARCH."

Milt had been listening… greater good. That wasn't listed in any of the files they'd been looking at. "Frank, you got warrants for Kerns' bank accounts, right?"

"Yeah. But there wasn't anything out of the ordinary there. The guy's a businessman. He moves lots of money, but nothing suspicious jumped out at our forensic accountant."

"U.S. Exporters works for a lot of charities, right?"

"According to what we know about them, yeah. Why?"

"Doesn't something like The Greater Good sound like a _charity_?"

Frank turned to Milt, sudden realization dawning on them both, and said, "We're looking in the wrong place for the connection. And if we've got those pictures of the bills of lading and the shipping tickets, that could be the break we need."

OOOOO

Kerns waited outside the police station. He'd have to get them on the way back. There was no other option. There was no guarantee that they'd leave the estate again, and the estate itself was too well guarded to try to make an attempt on them there.

OOOOO

Hardcastle and McCormick walked out of the police station followed by the contingency of officers. They all got into their vehicles and waited for the judge and McCormick to lead the procession back to Gulls Way.

"Judge, I don't know about you, but I'm thinking this whole thing is more like an iceberg, you know, where we are only seeing about 5 percent of the whole thing. What's below the surface?"

"NO WAY TO KNOW, BUT I AGREE." Milt jotted down. He pulled out his keys and handed them over to Mark. "HERE, YOU DRIVE, TAKE YOUR MIND OFF OF THINGS FOR AWHILE."

"I don't think a twenty minute drive is gonna be much help."

"IT'LL HELP ME, I DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING."

Mark managed to smile and took the keys from him. He pulled out to the end of the parking lot and waited for the two unmarked and one squad car to fall in line behind him. "Yep, nothing beats a parade huh?"

OOOOO

An hour.

Several looks at his watch confirmed it. They'd been in there for over an hour doing God knows what. When they finally came out and climbed into the judge's truck, Kerns saw a huge stroke of luck was smiling down on him – the judge gave McCormick the keys! His objective was crystal clear, and he didn't care that a caravan of cops followed behind the GMC truck. It was time to get Hardcastle and McCormick once and for all.

He knew they'd be heading back to the Judge's estate. That meant the PCH, and the potential to send him flying off the side of the Oceanside cliff in a fireball brought a sadistic smile to his sweaty face. He noticed how the curly-headed sidekick was driving. He seemed to be paying particular attention when he looked around to merge into the sparse traffic… hmmm, he seemed a bit unsure of himself, perhaps a little worried that his inability to hear affected his driving. That would be a plus, make things easier. McCormick was going to die too, and since Kerns was dead if he didn't finish off the two of them, what would two attempted murders mean to a dead man?

He just had to time his attack.

They drove along, right at the speed limit. Acting as nonchalantly as possible, Kerns started to make his move. First, he calmly passed one of the unmarked cars, then the next and by the time they hit the PCH, he moved ahead of the squad car and was right beside the GMC.

He was in position to take out the truck.

He waited until they reached a straight stretch of road, one that was coming up on a curve. He slammed down on the accelerator and … SMASH!

He slammed the side of his Dodge truck into the driver's side of the GMC truck.

McCormick gripped the wheel as the momentum jarred through the truck and he wrestled the steering wheel to stay on the road. "What the hell?" He looked out and saw the Dodge truck driving right alongside of them. "Where's our protection?" He shouted at Milt, who was busy, looking back at the cops who were racing to intercept them.

Everything was happening too quickly. In an instant, the man in the Dodge wielded a gun and started shooting through the passenger window at the GMC while continuing to ram and bash against the side, attempting to push them off the road.

One bullet tore a hole in the side of the truck bed. "He's using hollow points!" Mark told the judge. "If he hits the gas tank…" Another bullet caught the left rear tire and scraps flew through Mark's open driver's side window and completely shattered the windshield from the inside. Not only could Mark not hear anything, now his vision for driving was obscured by the busted up window.

"Dammit!" Mark peered out the side of the truck to stay on the road as he accelerated to get ahead of the white truck. He saw the police cars with lights flashing trying to get around them, but they weren't having much success. The two trucks were taking up too much room.

Milt was busy grabbing the shot gun from behind the seat. He took the butt of it and completely smashed out the window, freeing up McComick's vision.

The Dodge rammed them again, backed off. The driver fired more shots at them.

"Front tire's gone too!" Mark shouted as he wrestled the truck under control. "We're running on the rims," he muttered as he fought to maintain control of the speeding vehicle.

Milt took the shotgun and was about to point it out the window. His angle was all wrong and he was unable to get off a clean enough shot at the car, not without endangering Mark. He put his hand where Mark could see it, and made a spinning motion and pointed it at the other truck.

Mark realized what he wanted to do, "Yeah, yeah, I gotta get him over to the other side of us so you can get a good shot at him. Hang on. This could get nasty."

McCormick hit the brakes and spun around as the Dodge rocketed past him. He slammed the GMC into reverse and floorboarded the gas pedal. He sped _backwards_ toward the back of the Dodge and slammed into the rear of it.

"Can you get the tires?" he shouted at the judge. "I'm moving up beside him!"

Mark drove the GMC closer to the Dodge, moving up beside it as Hardcastle took aim and shot out the passenger side rear tire. Rubber spewed over the road as the tire exploded.

They saw the Dodge lurch as the driver tried to get it back under control. Mark wasn't finished. He started a little pushing and shoving of his own, trying to push the truck into what was hopefully a controlled spin and stop him. Milt got a good look at the driver when he turned his head to see the GMC slamming into the rear of his truck. "Hey, that's Kerns," he shouted, not that McCormick could hear him.

Kerns steered his truck back to the left, putting some space between the two trucks. He let the GMC get up along side and then steered full throttle into the judge's truck.

"Hang on!" Mark yelled. They both braced themselves for the collision.

When Kerns moved back left, Milt got the shotgun ready again and took aim. Mark slammed the GMC into the side of the Kerns' truck, pushed it hard over the asphalt and Milt shot out the front tire. The Dodge went careening through the safety barrier, off the road, over the cliff and then barreled down the side of the hill. It turned over, rolling down the hill and crashed into boulders lining the area. There was no movement inside the truck as it burst into flames.

Mark hit the brakes and spun the GMC around so they were facing the correct direction and pulled the battered truck over to the side as the police units came racing up beside them. Hardcastle got out of the truck in a flash and went back to them and shouted. "Where the hell were you guys?"

Mark got out of the truck much slower and went to the side of the cliff to see the car still burning down at the bottom. Okay, third time these guys had tried to kill them. Three. One, two, three… sniper, car, truck.

He mentally calculated the odds of what the next attempt on their lives would entail.

Mark was almost surprised at the calmness which he found himself accepting this last attack with. Some nutcase just tried to run them off the road.

Said nutcase just got into a high-speed chase of bumper cars on the Pacific Coast Highway and tried to kill them.

For a moment, things seemed abnormally normal. THIS, he could deal with. THIS, he understood. THIS, he could do something about.

That was it, wasn't it? For the first time since the explosion, he found himself in a situation where he could actually help with the defense. He wasn't a bystander having to be protected. He was driving a one-ton weapon, backwards, and he wielded it against the bad guy who was trying to take them out.

It felt good to be able to get in a few kicks for the good guys for a change, and to do it while driving.

However, the good guys were having a bit of a difficult time dealing with Hurricane Milt who was probably ready to rip their livers out for not acting fast enough to stop the Dodge.

The cops quickly called in an ambulance, the fire department, as well as the coroner and they fell all over themselves apologizing to Hardcastle while at the same time trying to secure the scene. McCormick made his way over to the judge and tried to pull him away from the cops who he could tell were barely tolerating the judge's outburst. One cop in particular was about to make an issue of the judge's tirade when Mark held up his hand and grabbed Milt's arm to get his attention.

"Judge, come on, it's over. Let's let these guys do their work." He started pulling Milt away. "It's not their fault. It all happened too fast, and we pretty much outdistanced them when I hit the gas. Remember, that's why I had you get your engine souped up some so we could do just that on our cases."

"We could have been killed just now," Hardcastle said, before he realized that Mark couldn't hear a word he said. He patted himself and searched his pockets for something to write with, while McCormick pulled out a pad and pen for him.

"Here you go," he smiled.

"YOU OKAY?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mark laughed. "Doesn't it look like I'm okay?"

"NO, YOU'RE FOREHEAD IS BLEEDING."

McCormick reached up and felt the blood, already starting to dry. "Ah, it's nothing, must be from when he shattered the windshield. How about you?" He lifted up the Judge's left arm and saw he had a cut.

"SUPERFICIAL."

"Wonder who that was? We've got a lot of people mad at us these days. Gunrunners? FBI? Maybe the gang leader from South-Central?" McCormick cracked.

"IT WAS KERNS. I RECOGNIZED HIM."

"Kerns? Are you sure?"

"I SAW HIM CLEAR AS DAY, IT WAS HIM."

"He came after us himself?"

"HE'S A MARKED MAN ANYWAY, NOTHING TO LOSE."

One of the officers came up and said. "Judge, Lieutenant Harper is on the radio. We have orders to take you and Mr. McCormick to the hospital. Since you're under our protection right now, we have to have you both checked out for injuries. It's procedure."

The judge was annoyed.

"What now?" Mark asked when he saw the judge's frustration level rising.

"POLICE ORDERS, WE HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL."

"No," McCormick shook his head, "I'm not going."

"WE HAVE TO, WE'RE UNDER THEIR PROTECTION."

"Then get us out of their protection, I don't want to go to the hospital. I'm sick of hospitals. Besides, there's a ball game on tonight."

"IT'S JUST TO GET A BANDAGE, THAT'S ALL, WE'LL BE HOME BEFORE THE FIRST PITCH."

Mark looked over at the truck. "Better have them call a tow truck. That's some extensive body damage that's got to be fixed and you can't drive on the rims. Think Kerns had insurance?"

_**Chapter 30**_

At first, they both took a seat in the ER waiting room. Neither one had any life-threatening injuries so it was going to be a long wait while the hospital staff was taking care of the more critical cases. Finally, Milt couldn't take the waiting any longer. He was up and down repeatedly on the phone, calling Frank about better security and any more developments. All they knew so far was that Kerns' body had been taken to the coroner and what was left of the truck had been hauled down to forensics to see if they could salvage anything. It was too soon to know anything else. Milt left Mark with two guards at the doorway of the waiting area but within viewing distance of each other.

Dr. Guthrie came strolling by and saw Mark sitting quietly trying to read a magazine. He tried to enter, but the police stopped him. The motion got Mark's attention and he waved the doctor through.

"It's okay, guys. He's my doctor."

Guthrie pulled out some paper and wrote down, "YOU WAITING TO SEE ME?"

"Nope, we had another attack on our lives. Just cuts and scrapes, but the cops are insisting we get checked out."

"TELL YOU WHAT, I'LL FIND YOU A BANDAGE, COME ON BACK. I'll TAKE A LOOK AT YOUR EARS."

Mark nodded, set the magazine down and was on his feet following Guthrie to a treatment room. One of the policemen followed Mark while the other waited for Hardcastle to finish his phone conversation.

OOOOO

"YOU DON'T NEED STITCHES, IT'S NOT DEEP AT ALL, THIS MIGHT STING." Guthrie wrote as he took antiseptic gauze and cleaned out Mark's cut. McCormick flinched from the sudden sting as predicted. Guthrie followed it up with a bandage. "I THINK YOU'LL SURVIVE."

Hardcastle pushed the door open and asked. "Can I come in?"

"Anything new?" Mark asked him, waving him into the treatment room.

Milt shook his head no.

"He's got a cut on his arm, Doc. Can you fix him up, too?" Mark pointed from the examination table.

"Sure, come here, Judge. Let's see if you need stitches."

Hardcastle walked in and showed Guthrie his arm.

"Ah, see, same diagnosis. Let me clean it up and give you a bandage too. You fellas sure like trouble."

"We don't like it. It just seems to follow us. Thanks for doing this, Doc," Milt offered up.

"My pleasure. Besides, I want to take a quick look at Mark's ears while he's here. You're all set, Judge."

"You want me to wait outside?" Milt motioned over to Mark to see what he wanted.

"No, you can stay. You might as well hear the same thing, so to speak."

Guthrie walked back over to Mark and dug some instruments out of his doctor's coat. Before he started he wrote down, "THIS WON'T HURT, JUST TAKING A LOOK."

Mark gave him a nod and watched as he went back and forth from ear to ear, comparing and checking.

After about five minutes of this, he dropped off the disposable ends of the ear instruments into the garbage and put the tools back into his pocket. "THE SWELLING IS WAY DOWN MARK, I THINK YOU MIGHT ALMOST BE READY FOR THE SURGERY. WE'LL HAVE TO RUN THE DECIBEL CHECK AND GET DOCTOR PEPPER'S OPINION, BUT ON FIRST GLANCE, I THINK YOU'LL BE AN EXCELLENT CANDIDATE FOR THIS."

Mark and Milt were both pleasantly stunned with the news.

Guthrie was busy writing again. "HAVE THERE BEEN ANY INKLINGS OF SOUND?"

Mark shook his head no, followed by, "Nothing."

The silence filled the room.

Guthrie wrote another note, "NOT TOO WORRY, I'M ABOUT 99 PERCENT SURE THAT THIS WILL WORK. YOU'VE GOT SOME DISLOCATED BONES IN THERE, IT'S AN EASY FIX. WHAT DO YOU THINK? ARE YOU READY FOR SURGERY?"

"When would it be?" Mark asked.

"IF DR. PEPPER IS IN AGREEMENT, I'D SAY IN A FEW DAYS."

Mark glanced over toward Hardcastle and let his mind start to wander. If he had the surgery now, he'd be out of commission, lying in a hospital bed instead of being at the judge's side in trying to track down whoever it was that was trying to kill them. Even though he couldn't hear, it didn't mean he couldn't be of some help to the judge until this thing was over, even just to watch his back. The big-time bumper-car game they played today proved that point. "What happens if I wait?" he suddenly asked.

Both Hardcastle and Guthrie stared at him.

"YOU WANT TO WAIT?" Guthrie wrote down.

"Well, maybe. Until we catch these guys. In case you haven't noticed, they're trying to kill us."

"DON'T MAKE THIS ABOUT THAT KIDDO," Hardcastle quickly jotted down and held up for him to see. 'YOU NEED YOUR HEARING BACK MARK."

"I'm not leaving you out to hang on this one by yourself, Hardcastle. How many attempts have there been now?" McCormick began.

Dr. Guthrie wrote another note. "YOU THINK ABOUT IT, WE HAVE TIME, AND IT WON'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE IF IT'S THIS WEEK OR IN FOUR WEEKS."

Mark didn't have to think. "Doc, someone is trying to kill us. Three times already, plus the explosion. The last thing either one of us needs is me flat on my back in a hospital bed unable to do much if there's a fourth attempt. I can deal with the quiet a little longer if I have to."

Hardcastle wrote out another note. "WE'LL THINK OF SOMETHING ELSE. DON'T PUT OFF THE SURGERY."

"Doc?" Mark asked.

The doctor had been scribbling a note. "NEXT WEEK, NEXT MONTH, IT'S ALL GOOD. THE SWELLING HAS GONE DOWN CONSIDERABLY, ENOUGH TO DO THE SURGERY. MORE TIME MEANS MORE SWELLING WILL GO DOWN EVEN MORE. THAT'S GOOD TOO."

"That settles it then, I'm waiting," Mark said to the doctor. Then, to Milt, "If it isn't going to make a difference, then I want to find these guys and put them away. I can't be laid up in bed and having people take pot shots at you."

The doctor must have sensed a bit of a row coming on, so he wrote out, "I HAVE ROUNDS TO MAKE. IF YOU NEED ANYTHING OR WANT TO SCHEDULE THE SURGERY, CALL ME. OTHERWISE, WHY NOT CONSIDER A TENTATIVE DATE OF A MONTH FROM NOW FOR SURGERY?"

"Okay," Mark said. "But if we nail the bad guys before then, I want my ears fixed."

The doctor laughed and nodded his head. He held out his hand to shake with both men and exited the treatment room.

Milt scribbled another note. "DON'T MAKE THIS ABOUT THE CASE OR ME, KID. I'LL HAVE POLICE PROBATION."

"Probation?"

"PROTECTION, PROTECTION."

"I can tell you're shouting. Why are you getting so worked up over this? It's my hearing, not yours. Why do you care so much?"

Milt turned his back to him and thought about what to write. He scribbled something down and spun around to show him.

'I DO, ISN'T THAT ENOUGH?"

"And you think I don't care if you live or die?" Mark asked him. "Look, Judge, today was the first time I could do something to stop someone from killing us. I…" he stopped for a moment as if to try to figure out what he was going to say. Finally, "I don't know if I'll ever hear again. I get that. I know I've been fighting it since I woke up in the hospital. The idea that this is my future isn't one I really want to think about, and I want that damn surgery because I want to hear again. But if going a little longer not hearing is going to keep you out of a body bag, then so be it. End of discussion. Besides you heard Guthrie. This isn't based on timing."

There are times in a person's life when the phrase, "Immovable object, meet irresistible force," is proven undeniably. Milt Hardcastle, the irresistible force, was standing front and center of Mark McCormick, immovable object. Neither was going to budge, but for once, Milt knew that he couldn't argue his point. As much as he wanted Mark to hear again, he wanted them both alive. Postponing the surgery was the only way to make sure that happened.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 31**_

Two days passed without any more attempts on their lives. In fact, they were able to develop a more semi-relaxed routine at the estate. Mark made breakfast, the Judge made lunch, both helped with supper. It was almost business as usual for them. Once, Milt came down for breakfast, Mark was standing at the stove cooking bacon and staring at it with an odd look on his face. Milt watched for a moment, then announced his entrance by turning the lights off and on. Other than that one instance, the judge noticed that Mark was far less tense, irritated or frustrated. Maybe it was the fact that surgery was more of a "definite" rather than an "if" that let him relax a bit. Maybe even trashing the gatehouse had helped him vent. Maybe getting to exercise some driving skills in a high-speed chase was the answer. Whatever it was, Mark was doing chores inside the main house with a relative ease about him. He didn't complain about being cooped up in the house instead of being able to go to the gatehouse or even doing yard work.

Part of it was because they had more of a game plan, something to work for instead of just reacting to the bad guys' actions.

Yet, Milt thought that the less-tense atmosphere wouldn't last.

At supper, Mark brought up something right out of the blue. "Judge, that attorney we met, the deaf one, he had the surgery, right?"

"YES."

"It didn't work," was Mark's almost dejected answer.

"NO. DOESN'T WORK ALL THE TIME."

Mark shoved his food around his plate. "Think he'd mind if I talked to him about it?"

Milt pulled out his wallet and found Dorger's card. "I'LL GIVE HIM A CALL."

OOOOO

One the third day after Kerns' attempt to run them off the road, a new development in the case came to light. The pictures were proving to be worth their weight in gold. There was nothing better than new evidence to blow the case wide open. It was early in the morning when Harper called up Hardcastle and told him he had stayed late at the office the night before to go over every inch of every photo for any bit of information he had.

"_It's been a slow go, Milt. The explosion did some damage, but they're giving me the pictures as soon as they get them developed. They were able to salvage a few more pictures than they initially thought. This last batch they sent are pretty sharp. Get this, they're of the workbench. You know, if your and Mark's crime busting ever comes to an end, he could seriously think about going into photography. These are the ones we've been waiting on. How about coming down here and giving me a hand_?

"I don't know, Frank. We've got a guest coming sometime today, and to be honest, I don't feel like giving the bad guys us as a target again. Things have settled down a bit. I'm not sure dragging McCormick out is the best thing."

"_He's got total protection, and I could use another set of eyes on this thing. The chief isn't convinced this goes as high as you and I think it does, and he says with all the protection you two have, he's not willing to give me any more manpower. Whatta ya say_?"

Hardcastle looked over to McCormick who was watching the highlights of the ballgame on a morning news show. "Let me ask him." He set the phone down wrote down the note. "FRANK WANTS ME DOWNTOWN, DO YOU WANT TO STAY HERE OR COME WITH? HE WANTS TO GO OVER THE NEW PICTURES WITH A FINE TOOTH COMB."

"Nah, I'll stay here. Besides, me and Officer Lafferty are going to play cribbage. He thinks I've never played before, and don't tell him I have. You just make sure you've got your police escort and that shotgun handy."

'YOU'RE SURE?"

"Yeah, we'll be fine, go ahead. Anyway, no one's tried to kill us for a few days. Maybe they gave up on the donkey hunt, huh? You know, moved on to more pressing international killing sprees, assassinating dictators, you know, that higher profile sort of thing?"

"FUNNY." Milt went back to the phone. "Okay, Frank, I'll be down in a while. Let me make sure everyone's in place here."

OOOOO

They spent the first hour or so with magnifying glasses practically glued to their eyeballs scouring the photos over and over again.

Frank finally spotted something. "Oh, yeah, I think I just found it."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"See this?" He slid over a photo toward Milt. "Look at the corner of the address label on there."

The picture wasn't blurry, but the logo was a bit small. "Frank, what the hell am I looking at?"

"It's a double GG logo. Right there." Harper suddenly was animated.

"That's a double GG?" Hardcastle's cast his suspicion.

"Maybe you need to get your eyes checked, Milt. This is the same logo used by one of the charities that U.S. Exporters delivers for. I did some checking with some friends of mine at the FBI. It's the logo for a shell business run by a paramilitary group that is actually run under the Federal Government. That's The Greater Good."

"Paramilitary front? That's just our luck. So it's not a charity."

"Not really, but it gets listed as doing some charitable works so the governments give it that classification. And if that's what this is all about, you and Mark really stumbled into the eye of the tiger. U.S. Exporters being a paramilitary group and having a government contract to ship almost anywhere, add in the fact that charities can get you into areas that no government can and boom. They're running free and clear. Basically, even though these guys are so-called Feds, they do whatever they want, whenever they want and however they want. And they have the full protection of our own government behind them."

Milt was busy eyeing up the so-called logo. "I guess I had my doubts that was what we were dealing with."

"Nah, you were hoping that wasn't what you were dealing with. Anyway, they exist right in our own back yard. The worst part is that even if we can take some of them down, they'll probably start right back up."

Milt leaned back in his chair. "Any ideas?"

"Yeah. I'm turning this over to some people I trust in the FBI. This is too big for us, and my jurisdiction ends at the city limits. Once it's in the hands of the proper authorities, maybe that'll take the heat off you and Mark."

"Then who do they go after?" Milt asked, already knowing the answer. "Okay, you take it from here, Frank. Let us know if we can do anything else. I want to be at the house when Dorger arrives."

"Who's Dorger?" Frank asked as he put all the pictures into the file.

"He's an attorney who lost his hearing in Vietnam. He had the same diagnosis McCormick does, but his surgery didn't work. He offered to talk to Mark if he wanted to."

"And Mark wants to? Isn't that sort of, well, dark? Wouldn't you rather have him talking with someone who had it done successfully?"

"Yeah, of course I would, but once McCormick makes his mind up about something, he dives right in. He wants the whole story. What can I say?"

"I'd say take him in today and have them fix him up and get on with your lives."

"Once we think we're in the clear, he'll schedule the surgery. He's worried that maybe it won't work and he'll be deaf from now on. I think he wants a better idea of what to expect if it isn't." Milt looked at his watch and noticed how much time had gone by. "I'd better get back. Lafferty's probably tired of losing all those games of cribbage by now."

_**Chapter 32**_

"Five games, Lafferty?" Milt asked, trying not to grin.

"He picked up on the game very quickly, Your Honor."

Yeah, right. It was all Milt could do to not laugh. It wasn't difficult when he saw Mark's straight face and simple shrug. The kid could play cards like nobody's business and usually win every pot in a game. Milt still hadn't figured out how he did that.

"Okay, you might want to get out of here while you haven't lost your shirt," he told the officer. After Lafferty left, Milt wrote out, "YOU DIDN'T LET HIM WIN EVEN ONE?"

"Yeah. When he thought he was teaching me the game, I did. Two whole games, Hardcase. Then I won the next five. Told him it was beginner's luck."

Milt was happy to see the chow-eating grin back on McCormick's face. Actually, it was good to see him not be depressed anymore. The last few weeks had been hard for him, and, like Milt had told Frank, Mark needed time to deal with the problems instead of having everything dumped on him all at once.

"Wanna play a game?" Mark offered, holding up the deck of cards in one hand.

Milt was about to decline when the doorbell rang. He shook his head, held up his hands to let McCormick know that their guests had arrived, and walked over to the front door. There were the Dorgers, both the Mister and the Mrs. along with a police escort.

"The Dorgers," the officer said.

"Thanks. Please, come in. Excuse the armed guards. We had a bit of trouble," the Judge explained.

Mr. Dorger shook the Judge's hand. "Judge Hardcastle, nice to see you again," Mr. Dorger said.

"You, too. Mrs. Dorger," he greeted her as he shook her hand as well.

"Thank you for inviting us," Mrs. Dorger said. "I'm quite pleased you called, and please call me Delores. This is Cliff."

"I hope we're not inconveniencing you. Things have changed a little bit, and they can move the surgery up. Mark knows the odds, but he needs to hear every angle on this," the Judge said. "That's why he asked me if I'd call you so you could talk to him, tell him the truth, you know?"

Cliff had been reading Milt's lips. "I understand. You should hear it too, Judge. I think you need to know what might lie in store for him."

"If you're sure you wouldn't mind?"

"Not at all, believe me, I wish I'd have had someone like me to talk with back then," he paused and added, "Besides, have pad, will travel." He pulled out a steno pad. "Lead the way."

Hardcastle led him into the den, and finding no Mark, led them into the kitchen where the young man was fixing himself a glass of lemonade. Milt turned the lights off and on once, and Mark turned his head toward them. He gave their visitors a little wave and then lifted the container of lemonade in a silent offer. He came over and joined them at a table as the Judge got three more glasses so they could all have a drink.

Mark stuck out his hand and said, "Mr. Dorger, Mrs. Dorger, thanks for coming out. I hope you don't mind us wanting to talk to you."

"MY PLEASURE MARK, I'M GLAD YOU HAD THE JUDGE CALL ME, AND PLEASE, IT'S CLIFF, MY WIFE'S DELORES. AND WE DON'T MIND IN THE LEAST."

"Sorry we couldn't go meet you. We've had a bit of trouble, and the police don't want us in an open area. I know you began to tell the Judge about your experience, and I was hoping you'd give me an idea of what I might be facing."

Cliff gave him an apologetic smile. 'MARK, EVERYONE'S SITUATION IS DIFFERENT, I SIMPLY WANTED TO SHOW YOU THE OTHER SIDE. MY WIFE CHASTIZED ME FOR BEING RUDE IN THE RESTAURANT THE OTHER DAY," he laughed. "SO I AM GLAD YOU CALLED AND GAVE ME A CHANCE TO APOLOGIZE. SHE SAID I SHOULD NEVER TAKE AWAY SOMEONE'S HOPE. AND I AM SORRY IF I DID THAT."

"You didn't. And its okay, I understand. Now, I think I do. It was a bit soon for us to be out and about after the accident, I think. I wasn't pleasant company then."

Cliff looked over to Milt and apologized to him as well for putting him in such an awkward position.

"Water under the bridge, Cliff. Don't worry about it."

"MARK, THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT MOST OF THE SURGERIES, NEARLY 85 PERCENT, ARE SUCCESSFUL FOR CONDUCTIVE DEAFNESS, SO YOUR ODDS ARE VERY GOOD."

"The doctors want to operate. They say the swelling has gone down enough to perform it."

'WHO'S THE SURGEON?"

Mark and Milt both laughed, "Doctor Guthrie and Doctor Pepper."

Cliff joined in and quickly wrote down. "DON'T YOU WANT TO ASK HIM IF HIS FIRST NAME IS IMA?" He laughed and they immediately joined in. "SERIOUSLY, I'VE MET THEM BOTH. PEPPER'S AN EXPERT IN THIS FIELD. GUTHRIE IS AN EXCELLENT SURGEON. YOU'RE IN THE VERY BEST OF HANDS. YOU SHOULD BE VERY CONFIDENT."

"I am, but I guess part of me wants to know what the fifteen percent of the equation might be like."

"NO SUGAR-COATING. IT'S NOT EASY, BUT IT IS ONLY ONE OF THE SENSES MARK, YOU STILL HAVE FOUR VERY POWERFUL SENSES."

"We've been trying to learn to a few bits of sign language. I've gone through that book a few times, but it can be slow." Mark signed out the sentence as he spoke.

"THAT'S VERY GOOD. IT'S EASY TO LEARN NOUNS AND LETTERS ON YOUR OWN. THAT'S A BIG HELP WHEN YOU TAKE CLASSES BECAUSE YOU'LL BOTH NEED SOME PROFESSIONAL SCHOOLING FOR ACTUAL CONVERSATION, AND THERE'S LIP-READING TO LEARN TOO. BUT YOU'LL BE SURPRISED AT HOW FAST YOU PICK IT ALL UP. BELIEVE ME, THERE'S ALL SORTS OF GIZMOS AND GADGETS OUT THESE DAYS TO MAKE LIFE MORE LIKE LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT." Cliff spoke as he wrote, so Hardcastle heard what he was writing. "BUT THE JUDGE IS RIGHT, THERE'S NO NEED TO PUT THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE. WAIT FOR THE SURGERY."

"Do you know others who have had successful surgery?"

"OF COURSE, I CAN PUT YOU BOTH IN TOUCH WITH THEM IF YOU WANT. I CAN TELL YOU'RE APPREHENSIVE ABOUT THE SURGERY, BUT THERE'S NO NEED TO BE. BASICALLY MARK, IT'S NOT GOING TO BE THE END OF ANYTHING, IT'LL SIMPLY BE A CHANGE OF DIRECTION."

"So what happened with you?"

"I LOST MY HEARING IN NAM, CAME BACK HERE, WAS TOLD ABOUT THE SURGERY AND I'D HEAR AGAIN. WHEN I WOKE UP, I WAS LYING IN THE RECOVERY ROOM, AND I DIDN'T HEAR A THING. I THINK THAT WAS WHEN IT REALLY ALL CAME CRASHING DOWN ON ME. THE DOCTORS DIDN'T EVEN APOLOGIZE FOR GETTING MY HOPES UP. THEY JUST SAID THE SURGERY DIDN'T WORK AND TO GO ABOUT MY BUSINESS. NOT MUCH OF A BEDSIDE MANNER. TIMES HAVE REALLY CHANGED."

"Must have been rough to wake up like that."

"IT WAS. I FELT LIKE MY GUT HAD BEEN KICKED IN. IF THEY HAD TOLD ME THAT THERE WAS A CHANCE I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO HEAR, I THINK I COULD HAVE TAKEN IT BETTER."

"Would you have still had the surgery?"

"ABSOLUTELY. IT WAS A CHANCE, BUT AT THE TIME, I THOUGHT IT WAS A SURE THING."

"I have a lot of thinking to do don't I?"

"SOME. I THINK IT'S BETTER TO KNOW ALL THE OUTCOMES BUT NO MATTER WHAT, YOU HAVE A LOT OF LIVING TO DO NO MATTER IF YOU GET YOUR HEARING BACK OR IF YOU'RE DEAF FROM NOW ON. HANG IN THERE, I'LL BE GLAD TO HELP OUT IN ANYWAY I CAN. MY WIFE CAN TELL YOU MORE. SHE HAD THE HARD PART."

Mark looked over at Mrs. Dorger who was sipping her lemonade and allowing the men to talk. She spoke and signed at the same time while Cliff wrote out what she said so Mark could understand.

"Cliff and I were always very vocal people. We loved to sing, yell at baseball games, we'd call each other all over the house. I'd yell at him when he left his socks in the floor. We were loud. It was fun. When he came back from Vietnam and couldn't hear, I had no idea what to expect. At first, I had to stop myself from calling him or yelling at him for doing things like leaving his socks on the floor. He couldn't hear me. It was very frustrating. I'm just guessing, but I think Judge Hardcastle has gone through some of that himself since this happened to you."

Mark glanced at Milt who nodded his head. "Yeah, I had finally told him to yell at me one day when I trashed the gate house. I just couldn't deal with the politeness anymore, and I kind of lost it. It's like he was walking on eggshells around me, and that's not us. Never was. Heck, we insult each other, yell at each other, joke and that all just kind of stopped. I didn't like it."

Delores nodded her head. "I know. One day, I'd just had it. It was something very simple. He'd eaten what was left of the potato chips and left the bag on the coffee table. There he was, in the same room, me yelling at him and he couldn't hear a word I said. In all honesty, I think it made us both feel better. Then we were told about the surgery." Delores paused for a moment. "We were told he'd hear again. One doctor in particular was certain of it. Cliff checked into the hospital, but when he woke up, he still couldn't hear anything. The surgeon came in later and said the surgery didn't work and then turned and left. Very callous, very cold and without an explanation."

"What did you do?" Mark asked.

"We put our lives back together after that. We signed up for a sign language class. They gave us a book of hand signals to look over. We taught ourselves the alphabet and a few nouns. We even had a few hand motions that were ours alone. He learned to read lips, and we learned new ways to communicate. Like how the judge turned the lights on and off when we came in to let you know we were in the room. We do that as well." She waited while Mark read everything Cliff wrote out.

"But he can't hear you if you yell at him. We've had a few issues with that," Mark told her.

"No, he can't hear me yelling at him, but he knows when I get angry. You'd be surprised the different ways there are at expressing that particular emotion that can be seen if not heard."

Mark and Milt both laughed at that one.

Mark turned back to Cliff. "Do you miss it?"

Cliff thought for a moment. "SOMETIMES. SOMETIMES IT'S NOT THE SOUND ITSELF I MISS, BUT I'VE FORGOTTEN WHAT SOME SOUNDS SOUNDED LIKE. I CAN REMEMBER SOME. LIKE A DOG'S BARK, AN AK-47, A GRENADE, A PLANE TAKING OFF. OTHERS I CAN'T REMEMBER. I'VE TRIED, BUT I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT THE OCEAN SOUNDS LIKE. THAT I MISS. THE MEMORY."

Mark understood what he was saying. Life wasn't over if he never heard again. They'd learn to adapt. But…

"Have you found some things you can't do like you could when you could hear?"

"LIFE WILL BE DIFFERENT. THERE'S NO CHANGING THAT. I CAN DO MOST OF THE THINGS I DID BEFORE BUT I HAD TO MAKE ADJUSTMENTS. I CAN'T ENJOY MUSIC, AND LET ME TELL YOU, I WAS ONE OF THE BIGGEST ROLLING STONES FANS AROUND."

"Yeah, I told Hardcastle he could have my headphones if I didn't hear again. This guy plays Dixieland, would you believe it? In a band!" He thumbed his finger over at Milt.

"NOT A DIXIELAND FAN?"

"The Stones, I like 'em a lot. Them?" Pointing at Milt again, "They're a little rough around the edges."

For the first time in a long time, there was laughter in the kitchen.

The Dorgers stayed a little longer, explaining in some more detail about the surgery and life afterwards. They even discussed the possibilities of only minor success with the surgery. There was always the possibility that his hearing wouldn't come back 100. They discussed all the adjustments they had to make in their houses, the issues that would come up that they'd have to work around.

Finally, Milt walked Delores to the door while Cliff and Mark finished up their conversation. "I really appreciate your coming out here and talking to him," the judge told her.

"It was our pleasure, Judge. I know what the two of you have been going through these weeks. It couldn't have been easy." She took a breath, then asked, "I hope I'm not stepping over the line or sticking my nose in where it's not wanted, but I get the sense that you two are good friends. Does Mark not have any family to help him through this as well?"

Milt shook his head. "No, not really. He has some distant relatives, but they're not family, if you know what I mean. Most of the ones I've heard about, he wants to stay distant from."

"You've obviously been a very good friend, sort of like a father to him yourself." Milt turned his head away. "Don't be embarrassed, I can just tell," she warmly smiled. "In any regard, you're lucky to have each other to get through this. I'll tell you though, if the surgery doesn't work, these 'stages' he's gone through, you might go through some worse times," she patted Milt on the chest while she composed herself, "Brace yourself, Judge, because it will be heart wrenching for a while if the diagnosis becomes permanent. You'll both survive, but it will be very rough. He has you. I can tell that you're as worried about him as if he were your own son."

Milt glanced back at the two men who were still 'talking.' "Yeah, the kid kind of grows on you," Milt said. "He's been alone most of his life so he's had to learn to accept help from people when it's offered. I'm probably one of the few people he's ever really trusted enough to let help him, and it took a while for us to get to that stage."

Meanwhile, out of earshot of the judge and Delores, Mark asked a very pertinent question. "How did you get through law school not being able to hear?"

"IT WASN'T EASY. THE TEACHERS LET ME KNOW THEIR LESSON PLANS, AND I HAD TO LEARN MOSTLY FROM THE BOOKS ON MY OWN. I DID SCHEDULE A LOT OF APPOINTMENTS WITH THE TEACHERS TO ASK THEM QUESTIONS. AFTER A WHILE, I WAS LUCKY ENOUGH TO HAVE SOMEONE WHO KNEW SIGN LANGUAGE IN THIS ONE CLASS WITH ME WHO WOULD SIGN EVERYTHING THE TEACHER SAID."

"Let me guess. Tax law?"

Cliff laughed. "YES. TAX LAW. ARE YOU WANTING TO GO TO LAW SCHOOL?"

"I was thinking about it, I need a few more classes to finish up my Bachelor's. I don't know if I could swing Law School financially though, but I haven't had a chance to speak to anyone about financial aid yet. I've really only saved enough money to go to the local college to finish my degree if I only take one class at a time. Then this happened, and I don't know how I'll manage it if the surgery doesn't work. And then there's the entrance exam to even get in."

That was understandable. "ONE THING AT A TIME REMEMBER? THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW. THERE ARE LOTS OF OPTIONS AVAILABLE TO YOU THAT WEREN'T AVAILABLE TO ME 15 YEARS AGO. COLLEGES MAKE MORE ALLOWANCES FOR STUDENTS WITH SPECIAL NEEDS THAN THEY DID BEFORE. YOU'D PROBABLY BE ABLE TO HIRE A SIGNER OR GET ONE ASSIGNED TO YOU FOR CLASSES THESE DAYS. IT'S WORTH LOOKING INTO."

"Yeah, I will if I need to," Mark said. "Thanks Cliff."

"Ready?" Cliff asked as he walked over to his wife.

"Cliff, Delores," Mark said, "Thanks for coming all the way out here. I really appreciate it."

Both Dorgers nodded their heads, and Cliff raised a placating hand and smiled.

Milt opened the door and motioned for one of the officers to come in. "Lafferty here will escort you back down the highway. I'm sorry for all this, but it's the safest way."

"By the way," Cliff asked, "I didn't ask before, but what kind of trouble are you two in that requires police protection? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Milt cleared his throat. "We work with the police sometimes, and we went someplace where the bad guys were, saw something we shouldn't have and they're not too happy with us. That's why we've got police protection."

Cliff nodded his head and gave a knowing "uh huh." He shook Milt's hand and said, "I hope everything works out for Mark. If not, I can help put you in touch with groups and individuals who deal with this sort of thing every day."

Lafferty escorted the Dorgers to their car, then drove ahead of them back the way they came. Milt turned and saw Mark re-reading through a lot of the notes Cliff had left. Maybe, just maybe, they were better prepared for what they might be facing.

Maybe.

_**Chapter 33**_

Milt watched as Mark counted his money. He'd taken Lafferty for about 100. He won about 50 from the red-headed cop. What was his name? Kelley? The judge took out his pad and pen and wrote, "YOU REALLY SHOULDN'T CON THE COPS. POKER IS ONE THING, BUT CRIBBAGE?"

Mark read the note and laughed. "That's what makes it so perfect, Hardcase. They don't expect me to know how to play the game. It's easy money."

"IT'S A CON."

"It's a bluff. Big difference."

Still, Milt was amused at the fact that Mark had beaten every cop that was protecting them one at a time at cribbage. Actually, he was more surprised that every one of the police officers knew how to play the game. Poker, yeah, but cribbage?

"BET FRANK TAUGHT THEM HOW TO PLAY THAT. KEPT THEM BUSY ON THOSE LONG STAKEOUTS."

"Well, he taught me. I guess they figured that since I'm not a cop, he wouldn't have done that. Besides, I can beat Frank too. Last time he played against me, he lost 200."

No doubt about that, Milt thought to himself. The kid was sharp.

Milt sat back in his chair while Mark put the money in his wallet. There was a much more relaxed ease about the young man now. Everything that had happened seemed to have brought him back to his old self. Well, almost. The high-speed game of bumper-cars down the PCH and the talk with the Dorgers had been the biggest help over the hurdle. That, time and attempts from Hardcastle to not treat him any differently – yeah, things were almost back to normal.

Milt turned on the TV and surfed through the channels. He finally settled on a football game just as the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"_Milt, it's Frank. I need you down at the station now. The lid's just blown off this whole thing_."

"What's going on?"

"You name it, it's going on. It's even bigger than we first thought. Mark's pictures were the one thing that the Feds needed to put it all together. It gave them the answers they needed. There are some new developments, and they want you in on the briefing."

Milt sighed. "You think we're still the primary target?"

"_Yeah, I do, and I'm telling you, this thing is huge. That little deal about Kerns and the warehouse ain't bupkiss to what we're about to face. We're talking military type commandos and weapons that would easily take out the state of California," _Frank's voice had an edge of disbelief to it. _"This thing goes all the way to the Middle East, Milt."_

"What am I supposed to do there that I can't do here? Milt said.

"_The federal investigator is down here now, and he's going to brief the morning team. He has to be out on a flight by 11pm. You've got to hear this, so you need to come down here quick."_

"Should I bring McCormick?"

"_Any other time, I'd say yes but we don't have time to write everything down. This guy is on a major time crunch. Mark's got plenty of protection and I'm sending Wilson and Chavez over right now to pick you up. You can tell Mark everything when you get back."_

"I'll be ready, Frank."

Milt hung up the phone and then wrote Mark a note.

"HAVE TO GO TO POLICE STATION. FEDERAL INVESTIGATOR THERE. WANTS ME THERE TO HEAR BRIEFING. WHATEVER IT IS WE STUMBLED INTO IS BIGGER THAN FRANK THOUGHT. FRANK THINKS IT'S SAFER IF YOU STAY HERE. HE'S SENDING A CAR FOR ME. I'LL TAKE NOTES WHILE I'M THERE."

"How much bigger?" Mark asked.

"MILITARY COMMANDOS FROM THE MIDDLE EAST AND HIGH TECH WEAPONS BIG."

Mark nodded his head. "That's big. Okay, Kemo Sabe. You go, just watch your back. I'm going to see if there are any other police officers I can fleece."

OOOOO

A newly assigned officer to the protection detail, Allan Schmidt, commonly referred to as Big Al to his co-workers, had offered himself up to play McCormick in cribbage. His fellow cops warned him not to fall for the deafness or the innocent schoolboy antics of McCormick, but Schmidt tossed all their alerts aside and decided he'd be the one to beat Mark once and for all. He even bragged that he had won the squadroom's cribbage trophy just over a year ago.

The rest of the guards took to their respective stations to guard the estate, the house and said human contents of the house, making their own bets as to how fast it would take Mark to win another hundred dollars from the unsuspecting officer.

Nightfall had set in and, outside on the grounds, everything was quiet and still.

Inside Mark was finding a more seasoned opponent in Officer Al, as he started to call him. The indoor lighting was subdued and most of the house sat in darkness. Al and Mark were in the den, sitting at a card table that had been set up near the window.

"That's fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six and a double run, Officer Al. Looks like I smoked you, too." Mark said pegging out. "Game one, McCormick," Mark continued. "But I'll admit you play better than your buddies. How about a wager on the next game? There's nothing I like better than taking money from a cop in a card game."

Officer Al was not impressed, "YOU'RE STINKING LUCKY, MCCORMICK AND YOUR MOUTH IS GOING TO BE THE END OF YOU SOMEDAY."

"Maybe so, but today's not the day," Mark grinned at him. "Whatta ya say? Are you up to playing again?"

"MY DEAL!" Al scribbled out.

OOOOO

"Let me get this straight," Hardcastle interrupted the speech he'd been listening to. "The CIA has been aware of this particular group for months, had evidence that that they were running guns on a massive scale but didn't tell the FBI. The FBI has been aware of interstate smuggling of items but didn't tell the CIA. The IRS has been looking into some of the financials of this group and knew something was going on, but didn't tell the FBI or the CIA. Not only that, no one in the alphabet soup told any local law enforcement that these particular kinds of crimes were being done."

"Yes, Your Honor," Federal Investigator James Gallagher replied. "Unfortunately, until we had the evidence Mr. McCormick took of the warehouse with the bills of lading with the Greater Good logo, we couldn't tie everything together. We can now build a case against them with enough charges to bury them. The main problem we've faced is that the organization itself is mostly based in other countries. Tracking them has been rather difficult. They use shell companies to hide their assets and eliminate any competition or threats with individuals recruited from the military."

"And you mean to tell me this one group in particular is operating here, in the United States instead of someplace overseas?" Milt bluntly asked.

"According to our sources, the CIA was aware of their intentions to enter the country a few months back, however, the FBI was not. The Greater Good was planning to move its base of operations temporarily here in the US, sir, and we believe there is an active advance platoon right here in Southern California. We have some confirmation that they are in the region," Gallagher explained. "The leader of this platoon is an individual named Frank Morris. He's a former Green Beret, Special Forces Ranger. He and I have met before. Not only is Morris the head of this particular team, he is, in fact, the leader of the entire commando unit for the Greater Good. You gentlemen stumbled upon quite an organization."

"And just how active is active?" Harper asked, with a disgusted look on his face.

Gallagher cleared his throat. "Our information is that they arrived in town this morning. We're attempting to track them down now."

"They're in town? Now? You're _attempting_ to track them down, and all of you knew that these people were coming here? What, was someone asleep at the wheel and these guys just sneaked right in? And you're leaving town, how is that tracking them?" The Judge said angrily.

"Judge Hardcastle, in all honesty, we believe we have sufficient manpower in place, and my personnel have orders to find these renegades and shoot to kill. Believe me when I say we don't like them any more than you do. They don't follow any ones rules but their own."

"And yet, you're still leaving right?" Harper asked.

"I have to be in Washington by 6am. I'm sorry, I've read all your reports, Lieutenant, and everything points to this faction. You confirmed the name, The Greater Good. My agents have this situation on the top of their list and well in hand. I can assure you of that," Gallagher explained.

"Well in hand, my ass, Milt complained. "Just how big is this so-called 'platoon' that you're attempting to track?"

"Could be as small as four or as large fifty. Our intelligence hasn't confirmed their number yet."

Milt threw up his hands in frustration, seeing the same expressions on the faces of everyone else in the room. "You don't know where they are, you don't know how many. Four to fifty -- that's a hell of a big discrepancy. We might stand a chance against four, but against fifty? How the heck do fifty commando's get into our country and no one knows anything?"

"I'm not here to go into those kinds of specifics. But yes, it's unfortunate that they were able to slip in. Given that fact, we think the platoon being stationed here may be rather small. Maybe twelve men or less. Due to the data at hand, we believe that their objective now is to eliminate you and Mr. McCormick due to your ability to survive the other attempts. We're coming at it from every angle."

"Yeah. Right. Every angle. Given your track record so far, that's not reassuring," Harper bemoaned.

"And just how do we know the good guys from the bad guys in all this?" Milt asked.

"The good guys won't be shooting at you," Gallagher quipped.

"Can you guarantee that?" A disgusted Frank Harper asked.

"Lieutenant, we had one of our people inside Kerns' organization. Given the reports we have of the incident at the warehouse, we believe our agent was trying to save Mister McCormick's life when Kerns was firing at him, and he was killed in the explosion. These people killed one of ours."

Milt put two and two together. The big guy who stayed behind, the one who looked like he could wrestle Mr. T and have a chance at winning. He'd been the undercover federal agent.

Frank leaned on the desk and made sure he looked Gallagher squarely in the eye. "They've tried to kill Judge Hardcastle and McCormick three times. The kid is facing being deaf for the rest of his life right now. You should have told us everything up front. One of my guys is already dead. More are wounded. That means they've tried to kill some of ours and succeeded once. From now on, I want to know what you know. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes, Lieutenant. We do," Gallagher quickly backpedaled. "I did not mean to imply in any way that our investigation is meant to diminish what has happened here with your people over the last month. I will instruct my personnel to work with your teams whenever possible. I wouldn't want to see this turn into a jurisdictional tug-of-war since we all want the same things. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the airport."

_**Chapter 34**_

Six ex-Navy seal/green beret/special forces types secured the Donzi speed boat onto the dark and uninhabited Seagull Beach about a mile down the beach from Gulls Way. As quietly as they could, they quickly unloaded a couple of duffle bags of high powered rifles and semi-automatic weapons. Wearing full camouflage as well as being being outfitted with full night surveillance gear and self-protection weaponry, the six men huddled up, talked briefly about their objective and split apart as they ran full speed up the cliff to the estate.

The first two made their way to the front gate, where they easily surprised the unsuspecting officers from behind with the muzzled high powered rifles.

Frank Harper's officers never knew what hit them.

Soldier #3 took out the officer by the fountain, while soldier #4 took out the officer by the pool and soldier #5 dealt with the officer back by the rear gate. After eliminating the last exterior cop, soldier #6 shimmied his way up to the roof. With all outside interference dealt with, they quickly moved into position. One soldier took position on the perimeter of the house, one on the grounds, one more held position closer to the boat in order to secure their retreat while two waited for the signal from the one on the roof that he had cut the power and it was clear to enter the house.

Finally, soldier #6 gave the signal that the power was about to be cut. They were ready to go in.

OOOOO

"You forgot to count knobs, Officer Al, and that means your point is now my point," Mark said.

Al leaned back and shook his head as he handed Mark the 50 he had just lost. "WHY CAN'T YOU CALL ME BIG AL, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE DOES?"

"Because calling you Officer Al riles you up!" McCormick grinned. "Always a good tactic to go for when playing for money. It puts your opponent off his game."

WHAM…..the light right between the two of them was shot out, sending debris flying in every direction.

"What the hell?" Mark hadn't heard anything but he saw the minor explosion of the light bulb and shade and knew something indeed was up. The room was now pitch dark. Suddenly, the electric clock on the desk went out as well. What the heck had just happened?

There was a bullet hole in the lamp shade.

Mark got on the ground fast.

Besides someone shooting at them, the power to the house was now completely off as well. There wasn't even a moon out to help illuminate the den. "Al?" he whispered. "Hey, where are you?" Al wouldn't know the layout of the den, not very well anyway. He wouldn't know where to go in the dark. McCormick started to crawl over to the other end of the card table. He swallowed hard when, there on the floor, was the slumped body of Al Schmidt. He all but crawled right into him. On the floor was a pool of blood was already forming. He reached his hand over and checked for a pulse. There wasn't one. The bullet that had hit the lamp had been shot through Al first. Mark's head sank into his chest. "Oh damn," he muttered quietly, his voice quivering. "I'm sorry, Al."

Mark kept low to the ground. First, he took Al's gun. Next, he needed to get over to Milt's desk to retrieve a second gun. He knew exactly what these maniacs were capable of doing but he didn't know how many there were. In sheer darkness and deafness, he had no way of knowing if any of the other officers were dead. If they had gotten inside to kill his personal guard, they had undoubtedly taken care of the other five officers on the grounds too. Mark was in this alone right now.

He started to make his way over to the Judge's desk. Two handguns might not do too much in this situation, but maybe he'd get lucky with a shot. If luck was anywhere on his side right now, maybe he could make his way over to the gun rack and get a shotgun. What he'd give to have Hardcastle there right now to watch his back. All the supposition was coming true, this was some sort of highly trained efficient tactical unit and they had one goal -- to kill him.

OOOOO

Gallagher had left, leaving Milt and Frank alone with the six officers for tomorrow's patrol, grumbling and discussing what they might potentially be in store for.

"It's crazy. We don't know who they are, what they look like, how many of them there are or when they're going to attack," Officer Pete Holmen said.

"I want all you guys in full swat gear, you hear that?" Harper said. "Let's get a full detachment up and on alert. Now."

"Yeah, that's fine, but what about the guys there right now?" Officer Steve Jacob said. "Want us to let them know, sir?"

"Milt, why don't you give Big Al a call and tell him to have the guys gear up and keep their eyes peeled. He's inside tonight with Mark right?"

"Yeah, they were playing cribbage when I left." Milt went to the phone on Harper's desk.

"Losing a game of cribbage to Mark, you mean," Frank muttered.

OOOOO

The phone rang, but Mark didn't hear it.

McCormick's eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he knew his way around the house like the back of his hand. He had easily found Hardcastle's handgun and stuffed it in the front of his pants for now as he crawled across the hardwood floor, Officer Al's gun tucked in the back of his jeans. He had no idea how long the Judge would be down at the police station, and how in the devil was he going to get word to him that World War III was now in session right in his own backyard. He couldn't even pick up the phone to make a call. _Stay calm, McCormick. You know this house inside and out. They don't. There are all sorts of places to hide. That's an advantage, right?_

He was still crouched behind the Judge's desk, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the front door open and a tall, dark figure slide in. He leaned his head back against the wood and took in as deep a breath as he possible could. His insides were tied in knots. If he shot at the guy and missed, he knew that they'd be on him instantly and he'd be dead, and yet, if he managed to hit the guy, how many others would come a-running? _Think McCormick….think!_

OOOOO

"What's the matter?" Harper asked Milt, who stood with the phone in his hand.

"I got the answering machine."

"Try it again," Harper's face was full of worry.

OOOOO

McCormick slid himself under the desk and waited. Nothing like playing hide and seek with army men with real guns while sitting in a pile of dust bunnies because there was no way to move the obscenely heavy desk to clean under it. He put his left palm to the ground, where he could feel the movement of anyone coming near him on the wooden floor. His right hand pulled the gun out from his pants, finger on the trigger and he waited.

He didn't hear the phone's vibration that time either.

OOOOO

"No one's picking up Frank." Milt slammed the phone down hard. "Something's going down out there right now."

Harper looked to one of the officers and said, "Let's get that full swat team out to Gulls Way now! And have the desk sergeant keep calling Hardcastle's house and make sure they listen if Mark picks up the phone. Remind them he's deaf, he'll only be able to talk. Let's move people!"

OOOOO

There were two soldiers in the den now. One was busy scanning a layout of the house. He pulled out a penlight to shed some light on it.

Mark had his head down, but suddenly he was alerted to someone in or near the room. Maybe a flashlight? It was gone just as quickly.

"I got another dead cop over here. It's not the deaf guy in the picture. This guy is bald, the deaf guy has curly hair," the first soldier into the room whispered. "That's everyone then. Six dead cops. All we need is the deaf guy and the old man. Surprise, surprise gentlemen. Next time think twice about stepping in places you don't belong."

"There's no need to whisper. He's deaf, remember? He couldn't have gotten out of the house. We got in quick," Commando two said from the top of the entry way. "He's somewhere around here. Start looking and quit yammering. He might be upstairs."

"If he's as smart as it says he in his file, he could be anywhere."

The phone began to ring again.

With Mark's back leaning against the inside of the desk, he could feel the vibration trembling through the wood. Another one of those heightened senses kicking in? At first he wondered what it was. It vibrated for about 5 seconds, then stopped, then the same thing again. He figured it took four rings for him to know it was the phone. After five rings, the answering machine must have clicked in because a solid rumbling occurred for about thirty seconds, he thought someone was leaving a message. _Please let it be Hardcase._ Then the vibrating stopped.

OOOOO

"Dispatch isn't getting an answer at the house," Milt said as Frank sped down the PCH. "They called the next door neighbors. Drinkwater said everything's dark. That means the power's out."

"Or cut," Frank said.

OOOOO

"This is easier than picking tomatoes in August," Commando one said. "All we do is kill the deaf kid, then wait for the old man to come in with his police escort and finish them all off. What's the big deal with these guys? They're a couple of locals. To think they flew us in from Pakistan for this? Ain't there any local talent to finish this job?"

"Did you read the file? They've tried three times to kill these guys, and they all failed. These two have managed to capture over a hundred criminals who eluded local, state and federal prosecution. They know what they're doing."

"The dude is deaf, Morris! There ain't much of a challenge to that."

"Yeah, well, did you find him yet, smart ass? Look around down here, I'm going upstairs. This is Commando two to grounds, come in?"

"We hear ya, Sarge. Nothing going on out here. You're clear to go."

"Roger that."

The phone started ringing again.

OOOOO

Mark knew it had to be Hardcastle calling, but why? Why the repeated calls? He knew that Mark wouldn't have known the phone was ringing, had they captured the judge already? Were they holding him as a prisoner maybe for some ransom? Were the good guys trying to see if the bad guys would answer? He had no clue. What if it was the bad guys trying to locate him just in case he DID pick up the phone? And if he picked up the phone, whoever was in the house would know he was still in there. They'd be sure to find him. What good would picking it up do anyway? Stone deaf. Although he could pick it up and start talking, Hardcastle would know right away that there was a problem or the bad guys would realize he was there. No, he couldn't chance it. There had to be another way.

OOOOO

"Just a couple of more minutes, Milt," Frank said in between calls on the radio.

"We might already be too late," the judge told him. "Can't this car go any faster?"

"This ain't the Coyote. We're almost there now."

OOOOO

The phone rang again.

Mark kept his left palm on the floor and suddenly felt something move toward the desk.

"What are you doing?" Commando two asked, asked from the entry way

"This phone is driving me nuts. I'm going pick it up." Commando one had moved toward the desk.

If Mark reached out he could have tripped him.

"Leave it alone. You heard the message already, Hardcastle is checking up on him and if you pick up the phone, it'll be a dead giveaway. I know you're not that stupid."

"We gotta find this guy and kill him, Morris, before the old guy comes back."

"We will find him. Did you bother to check in here yet?"

"Yeah, the area's clear."

"Then quit worrying about the damn phone and keep looking for him. Go check the rooms down stairs. I'm gonna check the attic. Regroup here 'cause if he is in here and he tries to leave, he'll have to come through this room. We've got him."

Mark saw that the man stepped away from the desk and he let out a silent sigh of relief. He knew this was a long way from being over.

OOOOO

Gulls Way was just in front of them.

"How many are coming with us, Frank?"

"I've got twenty five men en route, but if the Greater Good dumped off fifty men, I don't know what to tell you. We'll clearly be overwhelmed."

"Do you really think they'd send that many men to take out me and McCormick?"

"After everything you two have survived on this case, I don't know what to think at all anymore."

OOOOO

They pulled up about a half mile from the front gate.

Over the radio came a call from Swat Unit number one, "Lieutenant, two of our men are down at the front entrance. Not sure if they're wounded or dead, but they don't appear to be moving. It doesn't look good. We spotted them as we drove past. It looks like they've got one man on the perimeter gate out front there. George is using the night goggles to see who else is on the grounds. Can we block transmission on every radio channel besides ours till this is over?"

"Copy that one," Frank said, quickly radioing the station and asking for the radio scramble.

Another unit radioed in. "We've got one man on the beach below the house, holding an automatic weapon. We can see a watercraft just down the shoreline. We can take him out with one shot."

Harper picked up his radio, "Proceed and intercept. Let me know if you guys get anything out of him or if you find any sort of ID."

"10-4."

The desk sergeant called in as well to report he still had not gotten an answer on Hardcastle's phone as of yet.

"Keep trying," was Harper's response.

"Lieutenant, we've spotted two on the exterior, one by the front gate and one out back, but it looks like there's two more of our guys down, one by the back gate and another right out by the fountain. There's no sign of Nate or Big Al yet."

Frank shook his head in despair. "Damn, how many of them are there?"

"We've got direct lines on both of them, sir. Permission to eliminate two more?" he let it hang as a question.

"Wound one of them. Drag him out here for questioning. I want to know how many are inside. Feds said we can shoot on sight."

"Correction, Lieutenant, we've got Nate down by the pool. He's moving a little bit, so we think he's alive. Right now, he's of no use to us. We'll need an ambulance. Still no sign of Big Al or McCormick."

"Copy that." Frank looked over at Milt. Only his years as a police officer kept the judge from running out of the car and into the house to see what was going on.

"Lieutenant, I've got one up on the roof and I have him in my sights, permission to fire."

"Go ahead unit 3," Frank said.

"That's four guys already, Frank," Milt said. "Maybe they already got McCormick, and they're waiting for me?"

"Don't even think about it, Milt. We're not letting you go in there," Frank was quick to respond. "They obviously came out of nowhere and surprised the hell out of everyone," he sneered, "Payback is gonna be hell."

"Mark might still be alive in there," the judge whispered.

"He is, Milt. I can feel it. We'll get him out of there, don't worry." Frank Harper had his own mission in mind. "I've had it with all this crap."

"Lieutenant, the suspect on the beach is down and we have him in our custody. He's not saying anything yet though."

"10-4, unit 1"

"Ah, Lieutenant, Unit 1 again. We have company, another boat on the beach. It appears to be the Feds, including that guy that was in your office, Gallagher?"

"Either he's late to the party or he decided to miss his plane," Frank said to Milt.

"Unless he's got some manpower we can use, I could care less, Unit 1," Harper squawked back over the radio.

"Yes, sir, he's got about 40 men with him, and he's got our man down here on the beach. He's sending up about 35 men to your location now."

"10-4 Unit 1." Frank looked over at Milt. "We just lost our one possible informant to Gallagher."

"Yeah, but we gained an army to get McCormick out of there alive," Milt said.

OOOOO

"There's no sign of this guy anywhere, Morris. It's useless. Maybe we should smoke him out of here?" Commando one reentered the den.

"No smoke till we get the old guy too. He'll never know what hit him when he comes through the front door, then, if we still haven't found our deaf friend, then yeah, we'll torch the place. Commando Two to grounds, how's it look out there?"

There was no immediate answer from Commando grounds.

The phone was still ringing, and Commando one had enough of it. He was itching to get this mission finished. He walked right up to it and ripped the cord from the wall and took the phone and threw it across the room. He ended up standing just inches from McCormick again. Mark saw the phone break against the wall.

"What the bloody blazes are you doing?" Morris shouted at him. He bounded up toward the desk. There they were, both within striking distance for Mark. _Was this his chance? _The phone had been ringing endlessly for the past twenty minutes now. Hardcastle had to be on his way.

"That phone is making me crazy. If the guy is deaf, how the hell do they expect him to hear a phone?"

"You're a real idiot, Bookman. They probably want to know _we're_ in here. Your ass is back on the plane tomorrow. Pakistan is too good for you," Morris said. "I should have left you out there in the god-forsaken desert when I could."

Mark made up his mind to go for a sweep of their legs with his left hand and then he would attempt to put a bullet into each of them to slow them down. Maybe he could make some sort of a run. And he was hoping by now that Hardcastle and Harper were somewhere in the vicinity.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 35**_

"What's the head count, guys?" Frank asked.

"Lieutenant, suspects two, three and four are down. We have two and three in custody and Mel is working his way up to the roof. We believe suspect four up there is dead."

"This is Unit 1. The suspect on the beach is still alive and in federal custody."

"That's four of them," Frank told Milt.

Milt took a deep breath. "But we still don't know how many are inside the house."

OOOOO

Morris and Bookman heard the thud on the roof. "What the hell was that?"

"Commando two to roof, come in, Bubba?"

There was no answer on the radio. Morris tried the beach, "Commando two to beach. Talk to me?"

Still nothing. "Shit in hell," Morris yelled as he pulled off his headset and threw on the floor. "We got a real situation here, Bookman. Our communication is gone."

Just then Mark reached out from under the desk and swept their legs, sending both armed men tumbling to the floor. He raised the gun and shot out one of their knees and placed the other shot at the second man's chest. The soldier moved awkwardly and took a bullet in the shoulder instead. He fell to the floor stunned.

OOOOO

"Shots fired inside the house, Lieutenant! We're moving in. Sounds like an automatic weapon."

"That's my gun. Maybe McCormick's doing the shooting," Milt said.

"Let's go!" Frank yelled to his group.

About fifteen of Harper's swat unit began to converge on the house with Milt and Frank close behind, as well as the thirty five federal agents coming up from the beach.

OOOOO

Bookman remained writhing on the floor, clutching at his knee cap. "You son of a bitch! Under the desk the whole time?" He went for his gun once again. Both fired at the same time. Mark put a bullet in Bookman's chest that stopped him cold, Bookman's bullet hit Mark in the leg.

McCormick's body twisted and snapped back against the desk from the force and proximity of the blast. Instinctively, he grabbed down to his thigh where the bullet had entered and he saw the blood beginning to ooze out of the rather small holes where the bullet went through his leg. Regular bullet, not a cop killer. Maybe luck was with him for a change? For a moment he only thought of himself and that was a mistake. Morris was still alive and coming after him. Mark tried to scramble away by crawling on the floor.

It wasn't nearly enough though. Morris was on his feet in a heartbeat and he charged at Mark. "You want to make this painful, huh, kid?" He grabbed Mark off the floor in one fell swoop and using his uninjured arm, he laid a powerful hook into McCormick's gut, twisted his arm painfully behind him, forcing Mark to drop the gun. "I can make it so painful, you'll beg me to kill you." Mark's still sore ribs caused him to scream out and collapse to a knee. "You can talk, huh? You just can't hear?" Morris picked him up again and grabbed him by his collar. "Maybe I should shoot out your knee, too? Would you like that, you piece of crap? Bookman was an idiot, but he was my idiot and I decided whether or not someone lives or dies."

McCormick had no clue as to what he was saying. He was trying to read lips and somehow manage to also contain the burning pain radiating from his leg. "Who the hell are you?" he asked him, without thinking that he'd be unable to hear his answer.

"Morris, 8560981, United States Army Green Beret and your worst nightmare." He dragged Mark to the front door and once more attempted to radio his other team members. Instead, he met up with a small platoon of his enemies. "You're coming with me, my friend. I need some insurance."

Mark remembered he had Officer Al's gun tucked in the back of his pants. With his sore arm, he was able to quietly retrieve it. Maybe, just maybe…

Morris saw the move and wrenched Mark's arm behind him again. He grabbed the gun and pushed it right against Mark's temple. "Standard police issue. Belonged to your friend in there, huh? Maybe this will be the gun that kills you. Let's go." And he pushed Mark ahead of him.

"You're surrounded, Morris." It was Gallagher speaking from a megaphone. "Let McCormick go. It's all over for you and your men. We've got all six of you."

"Gallagher, should have known," he muttered to himself. Then, he yelled, "Like hell you do, Gallagher!" Morris was calling his bluff. He dragged Mark outside.

Suddenly, Milt's front lawn was lit up like a Christmas tree from a couple of hovering helicopters and federal agents hauled the members of Morris' unit into view for him to see, including the two dead men.

There was a noise behind him. Two agents carried out the body of Bookman from inside the house. They had crept up on him by coming in the back door.

Morris was surrounded.

"Give it up, Morris, I'm only saying it this one last time. You know I can put a bullet right through your head."

Morris sneered at him. "You never learn, do you, Gallagher? The people I work for don't accept failure." He pressed the muzzle of the gun against Mark's temple even more. "You want him alive? Then I go free."

"Not gonna happen, Morris," Gallagher yelled back.

Frank spoke quietly into his radio. "Do we have a clear shot?"

The answer, "Not without hitting McCormick."

Frank looked over at Gallagher who said, "McCormick is not the priority here."

A rifle was suddenly trained at Gallagher by one of Frank's men. "Sir, meaning no disrespect, but McCormick is _our_ priority. He's one of ours."

Milt let Frank handle Gallagher as he watched the Morris. The army commando had complete control over Mark, grasping onto him tightly around the neck with his massive upper body of strength. He could see Mark had been shot in the leg, as he was hobbling and stumbling to stay upright, wait, what was the kid doing? Mark was motioning with his hands, two fingers tapping his thumb…

Milt grabbed the radio and said in a low voice, "You're about to get a clear shot. Be ready."

"What's the answer, Gallagher?" Morris yelled. "You want him dead?"

Mark moved quickly. He grabbed Morris' gun hand and shoved it up, causing him to fire the weapon. With his other elbow, he slammed it into Morris' gut and instantly dropped to the ground.

One shot, and Morris was hit through the shoulder and on the ground. Agents and officers moved in double time removing his weapons while holding their own locked on him.

OOOOO

Hardcastle came sprinting over to Mark who had tumbled out of Morris' grasp and was lying very still for the moment on the grass. Milt quickly pulled out a writing tablet and grasped the kid's shoulders. He didn't need to write anything.

Mark quickly answered all his questions. "I'm okay. Just help me up. I'm not going to the hospital. I'm fine."

"YOU'RE SHOT. YOU'RE NOT FINE."

"I'm not going back to the hospital." He followed it up with the sign that Milt still hadn't bothered to look up.

"FINE. CALLING CHARLIE. IF HE SAYS SO, YOU'RE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL. NO ARGUMENTS."

"It's over for tonight right?"

Milt wrote down, "I THINK ITS OVER, OVER."

"How many were there?"

"SIX COMMANDO'S. HOW'D YOU MANAGE TO GET OUT OF THIS ALIVE?"

"You know that old desk of yours? The one we never move to clean under 'cause it weighs half a ton? Well, it's staying right where it's at. That old piece of oak saved my life. I hid underneath it. I could feel the phone's vibrations. I knew you were calling and that you were on your way. I waited for a good opportunity and went for it, kinda like when I met you."

"NOW YOU'RE COOKIN' KIDDO."

An officer rushed over and helped Milt get Mark into a standing position. Both men put one of Mark's arms over their shoulders and were slowly walking him back into the house when Mark suddenly stopped and waved at someone.

Milt looked around and saw the Drinkwaters standing outside in their pajamas and robes and talking to one of the police officers. When Elliott waved back, Milt did so as well. The police officer turned to look at Milt and asked, "Don't your neighbors mind all this, Judge?"

"They're used to it," Milt answered.

_**Chapter 36**_

"He needs a hospital," Charlie told Milt as he took a look at Mark's wound. "He's lost some blood, and the bullet went straight through, from the looks of it, it might not have done any permanent damage, but I've no way to know without X-rays. And I certainly don't want to risk his health over him being mad at me for insisting he get it taken care of correctly. We need to get those paramedics in here and let them cart him off."

"He's being stubborn," Milt told him. "He doesn't want to go to the hospital."

"Can't blame him for that," Charlie said as he grabbed the pen and pad. "Good thing he won't be able to object for long."

"YOU NEED A HOSPITAL."

"I need a lot of things, Doc, but that ain't one of them. I don't want one," Mark told him as he seethed. "Just do what you have to do here."

Charlie stared at him. Mark stared back. Mark blinked first.

"Okay, fine I'll go, but I don't want to _stay_ in a hospital," Mark reluctantly admitted.

"FINE. WE'LL GO TO THE ER AND HAVE THEM PATCH YOU UP AS AN OUTPATIENT. I'LL ASK THEM IF THEY HAVE TO KEEP YOU THERE BECAUSE I'LL KEEP AN EYE ON YOU HERE. IF THE WOUND IS WORSE THAN WHAT I THINK IT IS, YOU'RE STAYING. DEAL?"

"You don't have to bother with that," Mark mumbled. "I already got a round the clock nursemaid full-time."

Charlie looked over at Milt. "What he needs is a really good vacation, Milt. Not your usual kind either. One where he can actually relax. How about after his operation, you take him someplace where he doesn't have to worry about someone shooting at him for a while?"

"That's a good idea," Milt said, his mood not any better than McCormick's, and he started to raise his own voice at Charlie by adding, "Only thing is that a vacation will have to wait until after he has his operation to restore his hearing though, if that's okay with you? And what do you mean he won't be able to object for long?"

"Look at him. He's pale, a little shaky, he's lost blood – he'll be passing out soon enough and he won't be able to argue about going to the hospital. I'm just not going to do more than put up a token argument with him. Kid's been through enough tonight as it is. He doesn't need to argue with me about something he won't be able to object to in a little while."

"You sure?" Milt asked angrily.

"Doctor, remember? I know these things."

"Hey, what's all the attitude in here for? We're all alive, fellas. We're supposed to be happy. Frank came bounding into the room. "Ya know, I think this is the only room in the house where we're not surrounded by cops and feds. They're crawling over everything out there! Milt, your neighbors probably won't forgive this one."

Milt moved over towards Frank while Charlie finished up with Mark. "What about Morris and his group?"

"They're being transported to a federal facility with a hospital. Gallagher thinks he'll be able to get a lot of information from them, but I doubt it. Not without something big to offer them…"

"Like witness protection," Milt finished for him. "Just like Anderson and Katz. Think they'll do it?"

"They've got these guys on too many things, and they're a direct link to the Greater Good and U.S. Exporters. I think the best deal these guys can get is if they get a swift execution."

"Now," Frank looked at both Mark and Milt, "exactly what happened out there? How did you know what Mark was going to do?"

Milt laughed, made a motion with his hands and Mark grinned. "Sign language, Frank," the Judge told him. One of the words we learned was 'duck,' and Mark said he was going to duck."

Charlie helped a very pale Mark stand and even take a few steps. "Fine, he ducked. Milt, he's still bleeding and he HAS got to go to the hospital right now. So can we move? This is more than a first aid kit can handle."

Milt took the pad and scribbled down a quick note.

"HOSPITAL. YOU'RE GOING. CHARLIE SAYS YOU GOT NO CHOICE."

"Only if I'm not staying the night, and I don't want to ride in an ambulance," was the answer. "And if we're sure this is over with, maybe we need to call Doctor Guthrie and schedule that surgery. Better yet, maybe I can get a special, three for one, leg and ears, whatta ya think?"

_**Chapter 37**_

Two officers managed to help a limping Mark McCormick out of the house and into the back of Frank's police car. McCormick would have rather taken the truck, but it was still in the shop after the car chase they had been in and he out and out refused a ride in an ambulance. Reluctantly, he opted for the police car, but even he couldn't talk Frank out of using the sirens and lights. He somehow had it played out in his mind that if he showed up to the hospital in an ambulance, he'd be forced to check in. The trio of Milt, Charlie and Frank could only step back and enjoy the kid's stubbornness and tenacity. He was hurting, lost a lot of blood, had a very eventful evening and he was still jokingly arguing with the cops about going to the hospital. Frank was sure that one of the cops was about to let him try to stand on his own and fall flat on his rear in the driveway to prove he HAD to go to the hospital when Milt quickly stepped in, gave Mark the 'quit trashing the gatehouse' look and McCormick backed off from his mock tirade.

Once they got him to the car, he was insisting on riding up front. This time, Charlie came forward and wrote down a note to him in no uncertain terms would he ride in the front. Instead, he was going in the back, stretched out on the seat, where his injured leg could be elevated. As they drove off, he didn't hear the car's siren that Frank used to move people out of their way on the road.

"HOW YOU DOING, KID?" Milt wrote.

"I'm tired, leg hurts, arm hurts, and I just helped take out the leader of an international commando unit," Mark said. "It's been a busy day."

"YOUR ARM?"

Mark rubbed his shoulder. "That guy, Morris, he wrenched my arm back to get the guns. It's just sore."

Frank laughed. "And he didn't tell Charlie. Imagine that. How's he look?"

Milt turned back to the front. "Pale. He's breathing a little hard. How much longer to the hospital?"

"About ten more minutes," Frank pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. "Maybe seven."

Milt glanced back and saw Mark had leaned his head back against the edge of the seat and had his eyes closed. He could see the young man's shoulders rise and fall with his breathing. "Kid's been through the wringer on this one," the judge said. "Charlie's right. He needs a vacation."

Frank pressed down on the accelerator a little more. Mark felt the speed of the car increase. "I really don't think there's any need to speed," he said, opening his eyes.

"POLICE LIEUTENANT REMEMBER? HE SAID YOU'RE GETTING TO THE HOSPITAL QUICK AND HIS CAR HAS THE LIGHTS AND SIRENS. NO ONE WILL ARGUE WITH HIM."

"Ya know, you guys are getting way too much mileage out of your titles," Mark joked.

They all managed to arrive at the hospital intact, even with the occasional joke being told to pass the time. Each time Mark spoke, Milt could hear a little more fatigue creeping into his voice. Yeah, the kid had had it. He was running on fumes.

Frank pulled up at the Emergency Entrance, and Milt went to get the door of the backseat as McCormick was already scooting his way out.

"Would you take it easy?" Milt said to him without thinking.

"Would I what?" Mark asked him tiredly as he attempted to read his lips? "I don't know what you're saying. It doesn't matter. Look, I know I can't walk too well, but I might be able to at least stand with some help. Just give me a hand getting out of here, okay? I don't think I can do that by myself," he muttered.

Milt obliged and helped him get to his feet, which lasted for all of about a second. As McCormick got to his feet, he immediately began to crumble to the ground, succumbing to shock and blood loss in one fell swoop. As he was going down, he weakly called out, "Ju…" The Judge noticed him falling and reached out right away by catching him in his protective arms, hauling him back up in an attempt to steady him until some additional help arrived. He sort of held him against the side of the car and glanced at his face, which currently rested on Milt's shoulder, to see that the kid had passed out right there as he held him.

With his free hand, he gently patted the back of the kid's head and whispered in his ear, "It's okay, kiddo. I gotcha, hang on." The kid would probably never admit it, but he had the word "hero" written all over him, and just like the heroes in fiction, he wasn't going to ask for help if he thought he could do something on his own. When was he going to learn that the judge was there to help him out, no matter how big or small the problem was? Hardcastle called out to Harper. "Frank, get a gurney will ya? He's dead weight on me here." Milt called out. "Passed out cold. And he didn't think he needed a hospital."

Charlie quickly pulled up in his own car and ran to give Milt a hand while Frank found some orderlies and a gurney. They lifted up McCormick and took him into the Trauma Room.

As they wheeled him in, Charlie explained that he was Mark's doctor and that he had a gunshot wound to his leg, and he'd lost some blood. He turned and said to Milt. "Told you he'd pass out. Actually, I'm surprised he stayed awake as long as he did. Maybe it's a good thing it worked out the way it did. This way we got him right into the trauma room. I'm going start an IV on him right away, and we'll get this thing cleaned up in no time." He turned to the nurses in the room and said, "Let's start an IV D5W, TKO, draw a blood sample, hang a unit of whole blood – he's A positive - run a CBC and get a portable x-ray machine in here to get some film of that wound. I want to confirm it didn't hit any bone."

Frank excused himself out into the hall to make some calls while Milt chose to wait in the room.

Within an hour, the IV began to work its magic and Mark began to regain consciousness and Milt stepped forward with pen and paper in hand.

"HEY THERE KIDDO, HOW YOU FELLING?"

Still groggy yet able to read, he had to jab at the Judge. "Felling I don't know about. Feeling, honestly, a little woozy. Tired. Think I could fall asleep."

"DO THAT LATER," the judge wrote. "CHARLIE NEEDS TO TAKE A LOOK AT YOU."

Charlie stepped into view with his own notepad, "BLOOD LOSS, SHOCK, I TRIED TO WARN YOU. THAT'S WHAT IT DOES TO YOU. NEXT TIME, LISTEN TO YOUR DOCTOR."

"Great. Another lesson." McCormick lifted up his hand to his head and noticed he was connected to an IV. "Hey, what's this? You guys promised, no hospital. Do I gotta stay here now?"

"THE PROMISE WAS ONLY GOOD IF THE DOCTORS SAID YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO STAY IN THE HOSPITAL. THEN YOU DECIDED TO TAKE A SWAN DIVE ON ME." The Judge wrote. "YOU WERE OUT COLD IN THE PARKING LOT KIDDO. YOU'RE HERE FOR A WHILE."

Charlie saw Mark's eyes close in frustration. He didn't want to put the kid through anymore, but medical needs took precedent. He quickly jotted down, "DON'T WORRY MARK, YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE THESE I.V.S AND A TRANSFUSION TO REPLACE YOUR FLUIDS. IF YOUR VITALS ARE STABLE, THEN MILT MIGHT BE ABLE TO TAKE YOU HOME BY MORNING. IT COULD BE AS SOON AS A FEW HOURS. I CAN'T PROMISE, BUT I'LL TRY TO NOT KEEP YOU HERE LONGER THAN YOU HAVE TO." Charlie wrote out and glared at Milt.

McCormick took an uneasy breath. "How long's all this gonna take?" He all but pouted.

Hardcastle was quick to write. "AS LONG AS THEY WANT IT TO TAKE, QUIT YOUR BLLEY ACHING AND DO WHAT THE DOG VANTS."

"Can you see if he can do anything about your spelling while we here?" McCormick lightly laughed as he saw the frustration level rise exponentially in the Judge's face. "Doc, can I sit up a little? Whatever this stuff is," he held up his arm, "It's working, I feel better, really, I'm not just saying that. How's my leg look?"

Charlie nodded and had the nurses raise the back of the gurney a notch. "GOOD NEWS, NO BONE DAMAGE, BUT YOU MANAGED TO MANGLE UP THE MUSCLE IN THERE, IT'S GOING TO BE VERY PAINFUL AND SORE FOR A FEW WEEKS. AND YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO USE CRUTCHES FIRST, THEN A CANE AND THERAPY. NO ARGUMENTS, YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"If crutches or a cane means me going home sooner, fine. I'll do it."

"Check his arm," Milt told Charlie.

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR ARM?"

"My arm?" Mark asked.

"LOOKS LIKE YOU PULLED A MUSCLE."

Mark gave Milt a dirty look. "The bad guy yanked my arm back to get the guns away from me. It's just a little sore right now, that's all."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "CRUTCHES MIGHT BE A LITTLE DIFFICULT TO USE THEN. RELAX FOR RIGHT NOW, WE HAVE TO PUT SEVERAL BAGS OF FLUIDS INTO YOU BEFORE YOU GO ANYWHERE. I'LL CHECK THAT ARM OUT TOO."

Mark took a look at the bag and saw that it was only down about a quarter of the way. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep in a heartbeat.

Charlie looked over to Milt. "He's wiped out, Milt. Would you seriously consider a vacation? If not for you, for him? Think of all the stuff he's been through this past month."

Milt was in no mood to argue or have this discussion, "I will, I will. Right now, can we just get through tonight?"

"Well, it's good that's he's sleeping. Maybe we can sneak two bags into him before he wakes up and starts arguing with me again."

"I'm gonna go try to find Dr. Guthrie to see if we can get this ear surgery scheduled while we're here. If he wakes up before I get back, just tell him I left him. Ha!" Milt cracked.

OOOOO

Milt went up to the surgical floor and found Dr. Guthrie personally.

"What the devil are you doing here this time of night?" Guthrie asked Milt.

"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you, Doc," Hardcastle shook his hand.

"Not Mark again?"

"Yep, he's down in the ER. He took a bullet through the leg. Doctor Friedman's got him patched up and is putting a couple of IVs into him before I can take him back home. They don't think it's all that bad. The real good news is that we caught the guys that were after us. Well, McCormick caught them actually."

"You're kidding me?" Guthrie asked surprised. "By himself?"

Milt gave him an affirmative nod. "He had a little help with the LAPD and some federal agents," Milt almost laughed. "But no, not kidding. The kid definitely has a knack for catching criminals."

"And for getting injured too," the doctor added.

"Listen, can we get him on the schedule now for the ears? He was almost hoping you could do it today."

"Well, unfortunately, no, not today. I'll have to look at his chart for this latest injury, see if there's any sort of conflict with meds or anything, but we might be able to put him on the schedule in a week, ten days at the latest if there are no complications. How about if I have my charge nurse give you a call tomorrow at home and get him on the calendar then?"

"That'd be great, Doc. McCormick will appreciate that."

OOOOO

_Mark sped into the next turn, changed gears and dropped in low on his competitor's side. He had slipstreamed behind him around the last turn, but this time, he was going to take the lead. He accelerated around his opponent, raced past at just the last moment and crossed the finish line with the checkered flag waving in front of him. He'd literally won the race by mere inches._

_Mark got out of his race car, the crowd was on its feet roaring its approval of his taking the checkered flag. He could hear the hooting and hollering as he took the trophy… and then the stands were empty. There was no outpouring of adulation, no applause, no crowd, no one. Silence, that was it. He was alone on the racetrack. All the other cars had disappeared. He looked down at his race car and saw it change into the Coyote. _

"_McCormick!" he heard the judge yell._

_Mark turned around and saw the judge standing at the top of the stands. "Yeah?"_

"_Come on! We've got a case!" He was waving a file at him. _

_A case! Mark hopped into the Coyote and drove it off the track… and he looked back in the mirror. Suddenly the stands were full of people again and another race was being run. Without him. But that was okay. He had a case to go on, an innocent to help, a bad guy to put away. That's what he did. Besides, he'd run his race and won the prize. _

Mark felt his shoulder being shaken. He opened his eyes and saw the judge standing over him.

Right. Hospital. He'd been shot in the leg stopping bad guys. He wasn't racing at the track. That was an old dream, a fun pastime. Leaving the track for something else – it didn't hurt the way he thought it would have had it happened some years earlier. Even lying there in the hospital after having a fight with a commando, feeling like he was being peeled off the bottom of someone's shoe after being stomped on – he'd done good. It was a good feeling even if he did feel like roadkill.

"STAY AWAKE, SPORT. CHARLIE IS GOING TO EVALUATE YOU. IF EVERYTHING OKAY, THEY'LL BRING BREAKFAST AND THEN WE CAN GO BACK HOME."

It took Mark a few moments to process the information. "Wait, breakfast? We were here the whole night?"

"DON'T BLAME ME. YOU'RE THE ONE WHO GOT SHOT AND PASSED OUT IN THE PARKING LOT. SLEPT THE REST OF THE NIGHT THROUGH."

Some hours later, Mark McCormick, replete with crutches, hobbled his way out of the emergency room with a prescription for more antibiotics and painkillers, and back into Frank's unmarked squad car for a ride back to the estate. Charlie had gotten his way by giving the kid all the IVs he needed while he slept, complete with some pain killers that wouldn't knock him out but that would take the ache out of the bullet wound.

"You okay back there?" Frank turned and mouthed to him in the backseat. The kid was busy kneading the area around the wound.

He saw Frank mouth the word ok and knew right away what was being asked. "This thing itches. Yeah, just get me out of here," his voice had an edge to it.

Frank turned back and wondered why he'd just gotten his head bit off. He glanced at Milt and pulled away. "Don't take it personally, Frank. He doesn't mean it. He's not happy we stayed the night at the hospital."

"Aw, I know Milt, I just wish there was someone I could help him. I feel pretty useless you know."

"Join the club, but hopefully it'll only be another week or so, then maybe we can get things back to normal."

"I hate to tell you, Milt, but there's no normal where the two of you are concerned."

They both chuckled.

"Hey, would you two mind not talking about me? I'm sitting right here. It's kind of rude." He made the two hand gestures again that Milt saw out of the corner of his eye.

"WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU WISEGUY."

Mark repeated the signs. The one that looked like a wave and the other like a wave under his chin.

Milt pulled out his pad, "YOU VANT ME TO VELL AT YOU AGAIN? IS IHAT WNAT YOU WHAT?"

"No, I want you to learn how to write in English."

"WE WEREN'T TALKING ABOUT YOU. AND JUST WHAT DO YOU KEEP SIGNING AT US?"

"It's time for poker again. You two are terrible liars, that's all."

Hardcastle mimicked the two signs, "WHAT DO THEY MEAN MCCORMICK, NO MORE LYING BY EITHER OF US."

"This one," he did the hand/finger flutter under his chin, "is for Frank and it means pig. And this one," he held up his right hand by his ear and waved it, "Is yours and it means donkey. Get it, donkey and pig? I read up on animals one night." He grinned from ear to ear.

Harper busted out laughing in the front seat as he drove.

"I don't think it's funny Frank," Milt said, and he began to write down something for Mark. 'LOOK, WHEN WE GET HOME, YOU'RE GOING TO BED LIKE CHARLIE SAID, NO TIME FOR POKER."

"Fine, only I'm sleeping in the gatehouse, not in the house."

"NO YOUR NOT. CHARLIE SAID TO KEEP AN EYE ON YOU AND GATEHOUSE IS IN PIECES, AND I'M SLEEPING IN MY BED TONIGHT. YOU GET THE SPARE ROOM AGAIN."

"You just don't like that little television screen I've got," Mark joked with him.

"That figures," Frank said. "Who wants to watch John Wayne movies on a 19" screen? Ya know, you two are giving me a headache," Frank said, and then to Milt. "Pig and Donkey, that's cute. And write that down for him to read it too. He needs to know!"

_**Chapter 38**_

_One week later…_

Milt knew he wasn't going to get any more sleep that night, not with the surgery scheduled for the next morning at 11:00. He got up, put on his robe and wandered down toward the kitchen, and he saw Mark standing in the den looking out at the dark ocean. He was leaning heavily on the cane he used to help him walk until the bullet wound healed up more. The crutches had barely lasted one day.

He hadn't wanted to use those crutches any more than he'd wanted to stay in the hospital. Charlie had tried more than once to talk him into staying a full day, but Mark steadfastly refused to stay there. He wanted to get his leg fixed, get the pain killers, go home, HIS home in the gatehouse, and go to sleep. No argument. Case closed.

For once, no matter how much the Judge agreed with Charlie, he was going to agree with McCormick about not staying at the hospital. The kid had had it. He needed to be home. He'd even let him sleep in the gatehouse, even if it did have a gaping hole left in it by the Caprice if that's what it took, but luckily the kid didn't argue about staying in the main house.

He had a week to rest up for his ear surgery. Then, all they had done that week was wait, clean up the estate and try to get their lives back to some semblance of normal.

However, it looked like the judge wasn't the only one not sleeping that night.

Milt walked over to him and gazed out at the same scene. Last bits of starlight twinkled down onto the water as the pre-dawn hours had brought some relief to the heat of the last few days. The night had brought some cool drizzle and much lower temperatures, though it was still rather damp. The rain had cleared off some of the haze, but still, it left everything a rather dull gray. The ocean seemed to be kicking up some big waves though as a couple of seagulls sat on the patio squawking at each other. The gate house was in a state of repair – the construction crew had finished the wall and would be working on repairing the inside of the building when they came back, and, for the first time in a while, there were no police officers standing guard.

"Remember the first time you ever saw the Pacific?" Mark finally asked.

Milt nodded.

"I was so used to the Atlantic. I saw it all the time in Jersey and Florida. I loved going down to the beach, any day, any time, any reason, you know? Then, I came out here. Ya know, the oceans _sound_ different. I can't really describe it. Maybe it's 'cause the Pacific seems so much bigger, I don't really know, but they do. I loved it. I even learned how to surf."

Mark looked at Milt who simply nodded, a grin on his face.

"I'm not that good, but I can stay on the surf board. I really fell in love with this ocean. I can remember what she sounds like, and when I look at her, it's like I can almost hear her, but…"

Both remembered what Cliff Dorger had told them about not remembering what the ocean sounded like. Milt placed his hand on Mark's shoulder.

Mark appreciated Milt's understanding, but felt he needed to explain things even more. "I did something that bothers me," he almost whispered. He looked over again and saw that he had Milt's attention. "I was making breakfast a week or so ago, I think, frying up some bacon, and I _couldn't_ hear it cooking. There was no sizzle, ya know. And it was … normal. That really scared me that I was becoming accustomed to the quiet. I don't want to do that if this is only temporary, and there I was not realizing that I wasn't hearing it. I couldn't help but think that maybe that was some sort of sign."

Milt reached into his robe's pocket and brought out the pen and pad.

"IT'S BEEN LIKE THIS FOR OVER A MONTH, IT'S PROBABLY NATURAL"

"It's pretty scary."

"IT'S UNDERSTANDABLE THAT IT'S SCARY WHEN YOU FIRST DO THAT. PUT IT IN PERSPECTIVE THOUGH. IS THAT THE MOST SCARED YOU'VE EVER BEEN?"

Mark thought about his question for a moment. "No. It doesn't even come close."

"SO, TALK TO ME. WHEN WAS IT?"

Mark kept gazing out at the ocean as he talked. "That night I was shot by Price and Falcon and dumped at the bottom of that hill. I was lying down there in the cold, damp darkness, and all I could think was that I knew I was going to die alone. I was laying there with a bullet lodged inside me, bleeding to death most likely, unable to move, didn't even have the strength to scream. Hell, it wouldn't have done any good anyway, no one was around. That's when I was the most scared, Judge. I had no clue where I was or even how badly I was injured. I just knew it was bad from every angle. No one knew where I was, not even Millie. I knew you were looking for me, but I was terrified you wouldn't find me in time. It'd probably be at least a year maybe, someone hiking or walking their dog would find a skeleton," he glanced back at Milt, "a very well dressed skeleton, and then the cops would come out, forensics, they'd check dental records and then you'd get a phone call that my remains were found. By then, you'd have found yourself a new Tonto and a year old APB out on me and the missing persons report would finally be shredded and tossed."

Milt remembered vividly how worried and scared he was that night. When he saw Mark lying at the bottom of that hill… "WOULDN'T HAPPEN. YOU KNOW I WOULDN'T GIVE UP."

Mark almost laughed. "I know. I knew then, but I was scared to death you'd be too late. I was going to die alone. That's the worst way a person can go. When my mom got sick, we were living in this two room dump. I made a pallet on the floor of the room she slept in so she wouldn't be alone. She never knew that I heard the doctor say that there was nothing more they could do. She didn't want to spend her last days in the hospital, we couldn't afford it anyway so she came home. Every night I listened to her breathing until one night, she started breathing really shallow. She'd take a breath, then she wouldn't. Then it sounded like her breathing would catch. I was ten years old, and I didn't have a clue what to do. I ran next door and got our neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins. She came over, but I wouldn't leave the room. I sat there on the bed holding Mom's hand until she stopped breathing, and the only thing I could think of at the time is that she didn't die alone. That was all I could do for her."

Milt had been holding Nancy's hand when she died. He remembered that she had held on tight until the very end because although she was tired of the sickness, weary from fighting the cancer, she didn't want to leave him. "THAT MEANT A LOT TO YOUR MOM."

"I didn't realize it until I woke up in the hospital and saw you there. It hurt so bad, I still thought I was dying, but you knew where I was and what happened and I wouldn't die alone. I wasn't scared anymore. I know I'm not going to die from being deaf, you know, but that night, all I could think of is that I was going to die alone at the bottom of that hill. It's not something I can forget."

The grand scheme that Milt had cooked up years earlier to put the bad guys behind bars had come back to haunt him, but it was Mark who bore most of the bruises. "I'VE REALLY PUT YOU THRU A LOT OF CRAP KIDDO, AND NOW THIS, I'M SORRY ABOUT ALL OF IT, I NEVER MEANT FOR ANY OF THIS TO HAPPEN."

"Would you stop, Hardcase? I've told you at least a hundred times I don't blame you for any of this. I'm a grown man, and I'm responsible for my own actions. You've never forced me into anything I wouldn't do. Well, not exactly. Maybe at the beginning, but even then, you helped me catch Flip's murderer. You've given me an opportunity to completely change my life around. I know I was never one of the bad guys even if I did do some shady things, but whatever wrong in my life I've done, maybe all this has helped balance the scales. If that means there are some dark spots out there, then that's what it is. I know I can count on you and in the end that's all that matters."

And that's what it all boiled down to. They could trust each other. "ALWAYS CAN COUNT ON YOU TOO."

They watched the murky dawn try to peek through the clouds, but all it did was give the day a brighter gray look.

"DOCTOR SAID YOU CAN'T EAT OR DRINK BEFORE SURGERY. HOW ABOUT A STEAK DINNER AFTER? MY THREAT?"

"If it works, I want a filet mignon," was his cheeky answer. "And it's treat, not threat."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 39**_

"Are we ready?" Doctor Guthrie asked as he caught up with Hardcastle who was walking down the corridor to Mark's room.

The judge looked up at the doctor. "WE better be ready. You're the surgeon," he joked.

"I was coming by to tell you that there'll be a slight delay. The previous surgery ran a little longer than they thought, and they're sterilizing the room."

Milt stopped walking. "Hurry up and wait," he muttered. "Okay, about how long?"

"Probably not even an hour. I take it he's a bit anxious?" the doctor asked.

"A bit. We both are. It's the not knowing if the surgery will be successful or not," the judge told him.

The doctor crossed his arms. "I wish I could tell you he'll absolutely hear again. The fact is there is a slight chance he won't. It's good to know he's got you to help him if he doesn't. A good support structure is important to have."

The judge nodded his head. "He's got that."

"Also, like I told you, he's going to be very dizzy for a day or two, maybe longer. I know he doesn't like hospitals, but he's staying here a couple of days so we can monitor him. Think you can talk him into that?"

"Won't be easy. We'll be getting an argument out of him as soon as he shakes off the anesthesia. Anyway, I'll go tell him it'll be a little while before you take him in."

The nurse had already started prepping Mark for his surgery, including some rather unfortunate shaving of his curly hair near where the surgeons would be performing the operation. That had been the first step. Now he waited for whatever was to come next. The Judge came bounding into the room, carrying his trusted notepad with him.

"THEY'RE RUNNING LATE," He had already written down.

"That figures. Luck hasn't been exactly on my side lately. Look what they did to my hair."

The Judge's face showed a brief couple of sympathy, "REMEMBER, YOU NEED TO KEEP BOSITIVE. THIS IS GONNA VORK. YOU IALKED WITH CLIFF. HE WENT THRU THE SAME IHING."

"It's gotta work, 'cause I don't think I can handle reading your notes much longer."

'WISE GUY."

This time the silence between them was more unnerving than usual.

"Um, we haven't really talked about the other option here," Mark tried to break the tension.

"AND WE'RE NOT GOING TO NOW. ONE STEP AT A TIME REMEMBER?"

"But what if…."

"NO, POSITIVE! IT'S GONNA WORK."

"Milt, come on. Cliff's surgery didn't work. He said we need to be realistic."

"THIS IS REALISTIC."

"So you're not gonna let us talk about the flip side to all this?"

Milt shook his head no, just as a nurse came into the room. He quickly jotted down a note and held it up for Mark's eyes only. "HA, SAVED BY A PRETTY NURSE."

"That's not fair, Judge."

"IT ALL EVENS OUT KIDDO."

The nurse carried a tray and came up to Mark's bedside. "Excuse me, Judge, Mr. McCormick. I'm going to start an IV now and give you a mild sedative to get you started. We'll be taking you up to the operating room shortly. Would you mind stepping out for a minute while I do this, Judge?"

"Not at all," he said, getting to his feet. Before he left, he wrote, "SHE'S STARTING AN IV AND GIVING YOU A SEDATIVE, YOU'RE GOING UP SOON. I'LL BE BACK IN AS SOON AS SHE'S FINISHED."

Mark nodded his understanding. As the Judge was leaving, McCormick decided to get even with him as he spoke to the nurse. "My friend there thinks you're cute. He's too shy to ask himself, but would go out on a date with him?"

Hardcastle stood at the doorway, turned back and McCormick could _hear _the growl coming from his mouth and he let out a hearty laugh.

"Sorry, Judge, but you're right, it all evens out."

OOOOO

It was about ten minutes or so later when the Judge went back into the room.

The nurse met him at the door. "Mr. McCormick will drift off any time now. It's perfectly natural so don't let him fight it."

Milt pointed toward the bed. "This guy hates being knocked out for anything. He'll fight it, but I'll try."

As he got closer to the bed, he immediately noticed just how groggy the kid was already. The sedative wasn't exactly mild in his view. The kid was fighting hard to keep his eyes open. Typical McCormick, being stubborn all the way. Hardcastle could tell that his alertness was diminishing fast as he approached his bedside.

"You just missed your nurse, she gave me another shot of something or another. You came back, huh?" he said to Milt. He even seemed to be having a hard time talking.

Milt picked up his pad and jotted a quick note, he made a point to write as clearly as possible. "OF COURSE I DID. WON'T BE LONG NOW."

"What won't be long?" McCormick was hovering between entering la-la land and utter unconsciousness.

"SURGERY."

"Oh yeah, forgot about that. Feel pretty good right now. Actually don't feel much of anything. It's good. Almost numb all over." He somehow managed to laugh, though it sounded rather odd. "Feel sleepy though."

"NURSE SAYS YOU CAN SLEEP."

He had a moment of lucidity. "Did she say yes to the date?"

"NOT YET, WISE GUY." The Judge smiled at him.

"I'll hook you up yet, Hardcase."

"DON'T BET ON IT. WE DON'T HAVE THE SAME TASTE IN WOMEN."

"I know. I like _all_ of them. You are too choosy," he stumbled in trying to get the words out. "Besides, it's just a date. Not like you have to marry her…"

He watched the kid's eyes flutter a bit and then close and thought he had fallen to sleep as predicted, but then he opened them up again. This time he didn't say anything, he merely looked up at the Judge, though now he seemed to be cross-eyed and unable to focus.

"IT'S OKAY TO SLEEP, MARK."

McCormick forced himself to read the note and tried to smile, "See, there? That's how I know you're worried. It's the only time you call me Mark." He swallowed hard and took a very deep breath. "Called me Mark too many times since all this happened. 'Mmmname's McCormick, don't forget it."

"WHEN YOU WAKE UP IT'LL ALL BE OVER MCCORMICK. BET ON IT." There, he'd used his last name.

"Bet 20 and steak? Lucky man I am, no doubt 'bout that. That's one bet I'd be glad to lose to ya, Hardcastle."

"GET READY TO PAY ME THEN."

"Going away soon here, so tired, can't stay 'wake, stuff she gave me…" He couldn't even complete the sentence. His voice was now getting softer and weaker by the second.

"CLOSE YOUR EYES SPORT."

"Can't. Want to hear."

Hardcastle was confused by what he was trying to say. "YOU WILL, AFTER SURGERY."

McCormick wanted to make him comprehend. "No, want to hear the…now" he paused, trying to find the word in his foggy brain, "This, the quiet," he explained. He mustered up some strength to finish his thought with some sort of understanding to the Judge. "Quiet now, really appreciate all the beautiful noise after."

Milt got it and gave him a pat on his shoulder. "YOU WILL."

"Even your yelling."

"I DON'T YELL." He wrote out, then he crossed it out and wrote, "MAYBE A LITTLE."

"Want you to…." He barely said above a whisper, then he eyes drifted back into his head and his eyelids fluttered close. This time he was out. Within five minutes the orderlies came and took him up to the OR.

OOOOO

Frank walked into the hospital room and saw Milt surfing through the television channels. "Any news?" he asked.

"They took him into recovery about fifteen minutes ago. Guthrie said everything went smoothly, but they won't know if it worked until he wakes up."

Frank sat down in another chair and leaned back. "Been a hell of a case, hasn't it?"

"And then some, and not one I want to repeat, I wish it had only been 'a case,' I can sure do without all this stuff, I'm really tired of hospitals, and I can't even imagine what McCormick thinks of 'em right now," Milt told him. "I don't think he wants to stop going after the bad guys though."

"You asked him?"

"Not really. He gave me this song and dance routine this morning about this being a good thing and something about karma."

"You didn't ask him straight out. Think he'd want out if he thought about the times he got shot or beat up or tossed around?"

"Wouldn't you?" Milt asked.

That brought a smile to Frank's face. "We're not talking about me. What made you think he would?"

"The kid's a race car driver. He's good at it. He could go back into it with the Coyote. Get Flip Johnson's name down as the designer…"

"And leave you alone to play Lone Ranger? He wouldn't do that. Besides, I think racing doesn't mean to him what it used to anymore."

Milt turned the volume down on the television. There was nothing on anyway. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he still loves racing and probably wants to do it as more of a hobby, but what you guys do is more important to him. You gotta know that, right?" Frank leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "He's seen a lot of good come out of what you two do. You've helped save innocent people and put the real bad guys behind bars."

Milt leaned back and remembered what else Mark had said that morning, that he was never one of the bad guys even if he did do some shady things. All those years as a cop, a lawyer and judge had shown Milt two paths to walk, one with the good guys, one with the bad guys. Mark, however, saw it all differently. Given how and where he had grown up, his time in prison, his definition for 'bad' was different than Milt had ever considered. There was no fine line drawn, no stark contrast when deciding the good guy vs. bad guy argument, but there were lines you didn't cross. Mark had never crossed it because he wasn't one of the bad guys. The ones they went after, the murderers, the gun runners, the kidnappers, those were the real bad guys. Those were the ones they were helping protect innocent people from. "I never really thought about anyone getting hurt when I started this, but it sure seems like it's all I've been thinking about lately."

"I know. But you know that you're the closest thing to family he's got, and you know what that means to him. He gave you his word to help you out with these cases, and the one thing Mark McCormick will never do is go back on his word. You know that, and what you two do, hell, Milt, you guys have got to be racking up the good karma. Have you thought about that?"

The judge could only laugh. "That almost what he said this morning. Still, he's been shot more than once, beat up," he waved his hand circularly around the room, "had all this happen to him – why would he want to stay?"

Frank shrugged. "Why do you?"

Why did he? That made Milt stop and think for a moment. Maybe he once had an egotistical need to go after all those who walked out of his courtroom on a technicality, but afterwards, after he helped Mark go after Martin Cody for Flip Johnson's murder, a case that hadn't walked out of his court, it all changed. There was a bigger picture than nailing everyone that skipped off his docket.

"Because if we didn't, who would?" he asked Frank.

"Now you've got it," Frank told him.

_**Chapter 40**_

There was a buzz.

Not a loud buzz.

Not an annoying buzz.

It wasn't even really a buzz.

It was more of a soft hum. Nothing solid, nothing concrete, just the presence of something.

Mark felt something on either side of his head… right, there was a special pillow to keep him from moving his head after surgery. They had showed it to him, something about fluid in his ears, keeping his head still. He tried to open his eyes, that wasn't a rousing success either. He tried again, and this time, through barely opened eyelids, he could see the television on the far upper corner. It was on. In fact, the news was on, but there was no sound.

The newscaster was talking, but there was _no_ sound at all. Even that soft murmuring he thought he'd heard – it stopped. There was nothing. No sound.

It was the quiet. It was still there.

No, it couldn't be. It was supposed to work. He was supposed to hear everything again.

Mark closed his eyes, trying to keep the tears from coming.

The anesthesia still had hold of him, and he felt himself fall asleep again in the deep quiet that surrounded him.

OOOOO

The next time Mark woke, he was in the same room, the same pillow cushioning both sides of his head. His ears, they hurt a little, but not like they did after the explosion. Was that good or bad? The television showed a football game in the far corner but it was as silent as before.

There was no hum. There was a rustle of something.

A rustle? A real honest-to-goodness rustle?

A page turning? Could it really be a page turning?

Huh? His struggled to open his eyes, but his lids seemed so heavy. That was enough sleeping. Was he dreaming the sounds? Strength -- he had to have some of that somewhere. One last push of the eyelids and yep, they were open now, blinking, focusing, and most importantly, he was listening.

"Milt," he heard someone… whisper?

Almost immediately, the judge was standing beside him, a fishing magazine in his hand. "McCormick? Hey, sport, welcome back," he whispered. He saw Frank stand up, heard the soft sole of his shoe touch the floor as he walked to the foot of the bed as well.

Frank was there?

Wait a minute, Mark had heard a whisper?

He HEARD a whisper! He heard the Judge, the shoe, the page rustling, all of it.

"McCormick, can you hear me?" the judge asked him, his voice low. Milt glanced over to Frank and neither one of them could tell by the kid's foggy stare. "He's not really awake yet, Frank," Milt whispered. "I don't think he's all there."

They both turned their attention to McCormick. Mark's eyes tracked to the television and squinted as he stared at it. Frank spotted his confusion and suddenly grabbed the remote and turned the volume up a few notches so the sound was barely coming through. He explained the situation to Mark, "The doctor said to keep noises at a minimum until you woke up. We had the volume all the way down. Can you hear it, Mark?"

He _heard_ Frank.

He _heard_ the sound on the television

"Mark?" the Judge had that worried look on his face. It was that same look he had carried for too long.

"Yeah?" he croaked, his voice a bit dry, but still uncertain in his drug-induced mind.

"You can hear us?"

"Yeah," he said with more strength. He tried to blink away the last vestiges of the anesthesia. "Don't forget, it's 'McCormick.' Just don't yell. Not ready for that yet."

Milt suddenly wore an ear-splitting grin on his face. "Right. Doctor said no yelling. We're whispering."

Mark almost smiled. "Didn't do you any good to yell before. Can't yell now."

Of course, Milt knew that was a bit of a challenge. "Short term only, wise guy," he whispered. "Doc said we might be back to our usual sound levels pretty soon."

"That's okay. I can live with that." He reached over and took the remote from Frank. He increased the volume just a little, decreased it, increased it, decreased it.

"Having fun?" Milt asked.

"I am now," was the sleepy answer. Mark played with the volume a few more times, then let the remote fall back down to the bed as he fell asleep again.

"He can hear, Milt," Frank said in a whisper.

The judge sat back down, relief almost cascading off his shoulders. "Yeah. Doctor said that he'd be out of it most of the afternoon. Give him a day or two, and he'll probably be yelling at the top of his lungs."

OOOOO

Mark sat up on the side of the bed, feeling the entire room spin around him. The judge held onto his arm until Mark got his bearings.

"Was this supposed to happen? The dizziness being this bad?" he asked.

"You had your ears operated on, kiddo. Remember what the doctor said? Your equilibrium is taking a tumble for the next couple of days. That's why you're staying in the hospital, so they can monitor it."

Mark didn't dare nod his head. He didn't want a repeat of the dizzy feeling that was starting to settle down. In the distance, he could hear the intercom, the sounds of carts being pushed in the hallway, the muttering of people talking…

And it was some of the most beautiful noise he'd heard in his life.

"Did I imagine it or was Frank here earlier?"

"Yeah. He stopped in to see how things went with the surgery and was here when you woke up. He got called back to the precinct. Seems like some federal agents had some news for him."

"Oh, fun. Poor Frank. I get the feeling he wasn't too thrilled about that?" Mark suggested.

"He wasn't. Some things happened at the estate that night that got Frank a little angry," the Judge told him.

"You never have told me what was going on out there. Were the Feds giving him problems?"

"A little bit. The feds wanted Morris. He was their first priority."

The room stopped spinning and Mark was able to sit up straight. "So I was expendable as far as the Feds were concerned."

There was a knock at the door and Doctor Guthrie walked in. "How are we feeling?" he asked in a low voice as he walked over to them.

Mark grinned. "The Judge is fine, I'm dizzy, how are you?"

"Don't be a smartass," the Judge told him. Then he turned to the doctor. "He's dizzy when he tries to sit or stand."

"That's normal. I wouldn't consider sitting or standing without someone to help you for a day or two. The dizziness should pass pretty soon. Other than that, how do you feel?"

"Hungry."

The Judge almost snorted. "He's fine. He's always hungry."

Guthrie smiled at the easy give and take in their conversation. "Doctor Pepper will be coming in later today to run some tests. We'll have to re-check your hearing a few times to see how well everything is healing. Until the dizziness passes, be careful sitting and standing. Your equilibrium should equal out soon. Try to keep away from loud noises until you get the go-ahead from Doctor Pepper. That also includes no yelling, Judge Hardcastle."

"I don't yell," Milt protested.

"Yes, you do," Mark contradicted him.

"Maybe a little."

"You enjoy it."

Guthrie began to realize exactly how hard the previous weeks' worth of difficult communication was on these two.

The doctor did a few more basic checks and then exited the room for what he called, "seeing really sick patients."

"So the Fed's were gonna let me go to the great big music concert in the sky, huh?" Mark said, allowing the Judge to ease him back to bed, resting his head against the cushy pillow.

"That's what Feds do," Hardcastle said. "Everything's about them, the hell with the rest of the world."

"You know, I don't even get half of this case yet. I think you're going to have to piece it together for me."

"Okay here goes, bad guys kill people, lots of people, all over the world in fact. We hunt them down, then they try to kill us. We win."

McCormick laughed during the whole explanation. "That helped a lot, thanks."

"It's long and complicated and involves the FBI, the CIA and the IRS. I'll tell you when we get out of here."

The door to their room opened. It was Frank Harper once again. "Aren't they ready to check this kid out of here yet?" He said in a low voice with an ear to ear smile on his face.

"Probably a few days Frank," Mark beamed back at him. "And before I forget, thanks for everything on this one," he paused and added sadly, "And I'm really sorry about your guys, especially Big Al. They all put their lives on the line for us. There's no way I can repay that. Won't forget it either."

"Yeah, that goes double for me, Frank."

Harper's smiled faded and he gave them a nod. "They were a good bunch of characters and you're right Mark. We won't soon forget any of them." He sniffled a little and pulled out something from behind his back. "Hey, I got ya something," he brightened up.

"Me?" McCormick asked.

"You're the one in the hospital bed, right?" He handed over a wrapped box to Mark. "Claudia did the wrapping by the way, but I picked out the gift."

Mark grabbed for the bed control first and slowly lifted up the mattress to a more upright position and then he waited for his head to follow. The dizziness was slow to pass. "Frank, you did not have to get me anything."

"I know, but I wanted to, but I figure this is something you'll be able to use for a long time to come."

"Spelling book for Hardcase?" he suggested.

"Why don't you quit talking, open it up and see what it is?" Milt reminded him.

Mark tore into the wrapping like a six year old on Christmas morning. "Oh, wow, are you kidding me Frank?" he started to say as he spied some writing on the box.

"What is it?" Milt tried to speak.

McCormick was quickly tearing the paper off completely to reveal a CD walkman.

"I heard you didn't have one of those yet. You like it, huh?"

"Frank, I, uh, I love it, I don't know what to say. This is like top of the line, new age technology, Frank, how'd you ever…. And I can even hear it now, too. What a great gift. Frank, thank you!"

Harper cleared his throat, "You still were using one of those cassette things. It's about time you stepped it up. CDs, Mark, that's where everything is heading. You could give that old one away, it's a relic."

"I, uh, actually have Frank. I gave it to the Judge for his Dixieland. They deserve one another."

"You can say that again," Frank took a poke at Milt.

McCormick was busy looking over the box. "Man, I wish I had a CD I could try out in here."

"Open up the box," Frank instructed.

"No way? Frank really? Is there one inside?" Mark was back to ripping the box open and checking out the contents. "The Stones? Out of My Head? Aw, Frank, I don't know what to say! Check this thing out, Judge."

"I already told ya, kiddo, I don't know the Stones from the Rocks."

"Yeah, yeah, keep your head in Dixieland will ya?"

Mark went to pulling out the CD player, the headphones and the CD, when there was another knock on his door.

Frank went over and opened it up. Cliff Dorger stood in the doorway, with a big smile on his face.

"Cliff?" Mark sat surprised, "Please come in."

Cliff stepped over to the bed and Mark eagerly stuck out his hand to shake. "A little bird told me that your surgery was successful." Mark gave him a smile and a nod, yet he felt more than a little sad that Cliff still deaf. Mark had walked a mile in his shoes for a month. He understood. "Hey, none of that. I'm happy for you and you should be ecstatic for yourself."

"I am, it's just…"

"It's just nothing. Just be happy. And I have a gift for you too!" He was carrying a rather large box that Milt and Frank gave him a hand with. "Something old and something new in there."

The box wasn't wrapped, so Mark simply opened up the lid to reveal a historic collection of LP's, most of which were titles he'd managed to trash as well as a couple dozen other records too. And stacked along the side were about a dozen brand new CD's. "Oh, Cliff, no, I can't accept this. This is too much. This is your collection right?"

"Most of it. I've kept a few for nostalgia, but I honestly want you to have them. Delores always more of an Eagles fan, and these records haven't been played in a long time. All they're doing is collecting dust. I know you'll take care of them and appreciate all of them. There are even a few Dixieland LPs in there for the judge. I also talked with the good Lieutenant here about the CDs so I went out and chose a few of those so you have a good start on a new collection."

McCormick was in shock. He looked over to Milt, "You told them, didn't you?"

"Me? What? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh huh." Mark scanned his bed, now covered with CD's and LP's and the new portable CD player. "I don't know what to say."

"You already have," Cliff told him.

OOOOO

_Three days after release from the hospital_

The Pacific.

The gentle roar of the waves as they crashed on the shore.

The lilting sound of the seagulls as they flew overhead.

The sound of cars passing by on the highway.

The annoying crash of doors being slammed and judges yelling at people on the phone.

Mark had missed this. Hell, he had missed anything that had a sound, annoying babies crying, fingernails on chalkboards, even thunderstorms and gunfire, and only that because it was good to know when to be able to duck when the lead was flying.

He sat down on the sand and just listened. Things were getting back to normal. Hardcastle hadn't gone back to yelling at him yet, but that was only until the doctor said he could. The non-yelling had to be getting to him.

Normal. Mark thought about it. He was back to where he was before the explosion, but where was he? That dreams he'd been having about being in a race only to be willing to leave it all to go work a case with the judge… did it tell him more than he had actively thought about? Sure, part of him still wanted to race, but in his dream, he was more than ready to leave the Winner's Circle and go chasing after some bad guy on a case with Hardcastle. Maybe his unconscious mind was confirming what his conscious mind was wondering about? If nothing else, the dreams got him thinking seriously about the path his future could take, and in the end, it was him and the judge doing what they do best. That's how the dream ended. Maybe somebody somewhere was trying to tell him something?

He was still giving serious thought to law school, and the lack of a real job notwithstanding, he was still financially strapped. What about those dreams he'd been having? Could he play Tonto, race part time and go to school at the same time? He'd done that a few times, but he always came back to the Hardcastle's cases. What if he got a real job he worked 40 hours a week? He was sure he could, but when would he tell the judge? He didn't want to disappoint him, and if he failed at school…

Oh, yeah, this was normal. He was already contemplating failure before he'd even taken the plunge. He did that with everything except racing. If anything the last three years had taught him, odds didn't matter. You do what you gotta do and do your best at it. You don't really fail as long as you try, right? He's survived getting shot, thrown off a train, beaten up, and like they said, that which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. If he could get through that, how hard could law school be? And there was always his mother's reminder, "Life's not fair Mark, but it is your life."

Platitudes and clichés, Mark wondered when those became part of his internal monologue.

He heard the soft crunch of sand under old sneakers that he knew things really were getting back to normal.

"Hiya, Judge," he said without turning around to see that Hardcastle was walking up behind him.

"How far away was I when you heard me coming?" Milt sat down next to him and stared out at the waters. "Everything still seems a bit new, huh?" he asked, his voice kept low.

"No, more like it all went on a vacation and I'm glad it's back, and maybe it seems like it's all still a couple dozen steps away," Mark quipped in response. "Ya know, Judge, I've been thinking. Maybe you ought to give some thought to putting up a privacy fence."

That got Milt's attention. "Why would I want to go and do something like that?"

Mark jerked his thumb back toward the neighbor's yard. "The Drinkwaters are sitting in their back yard right now watching to see what's happening. At the very least, you need to spring for some good binoculars. The ones they have are the ones he brought back with him from Europe when he was in the war."

Milt glanced back over at his next door neighbors. Yep, there were the Drinkwaters, sitting on their veranda, having a picnic and watching Gulls Way through binoculars. "We've given them enough to wonder about this last month," Milt said. "Why spoil their fun?"

They were silent for a moment as they gazed at the horizon. "I would have missed this sound if I didn't get my hearing back," Mark said off-handedly as he pointed toward the ocean.

Milt listened to the ocean as the waves came in. Mark was right. This was a sound you didn't get tired of. He'd lived by the sea all those years, asked Nancy to marry him on that beach, taught his son to swim in that ocean, had watched sunsets time after time, but to just listen and appreciate the sound that had been part of the ocean's mystery for millions, no, billions of years, that was something he'd never really done. Now, he understood.

He would have missed it too.

"By the way, I found the notes."

Mark started to smile. "What notes?"

"The notes you been putting all around the house wise guy."

McCormick laughed and mocked him. "Judge, I con't now, vhat vou're ialking avout."

"Very funny. My spelling isn't that bad."

McCormick acted flabbergasted. "Are you kidding me? It's terrible! I wrote better than that when I was three years old."

"The teachers gave me an 'A' in spelling all through grade school. I can dig out the report cards to prove it to you."

"Why am I not amazed that you have your grade school report cards? Anyway, deciphering your notes just about made me crazy this past month. I thought a little payback was in order."

"Yeah, the first twenty were funny, but did you have to leave the one under my toothpaste cap?"

In a serious deadpan, "You only found twenty, huh?"

Hardcastle slumped down and pursed his lips, "Why? How many are there?"

"More than twenty," McCormick grinned. "Hey, I've got a question for you."

"What?" Milt asked cautiously.

"Kerns walked out of your courtroom because his name was misspelled on the warrant, right?" Mark was almost grinning.

"Yeah," Milt answered cautiously.

"So, when you were a cop, how many of the arrests you made got tossed out because you misspelled someone's name on some piece of paper?"

The Judge cleared his throat and grumbled something as he got back up to his feet, brushing the sand off his clothes.

"Ah, I knew it!" Mark almost shouted. "Who was it?"

Milt sort of shook his head in a gruff manner. "Judge Worrell had to let one of my arrests go because I spelled a defendant's name with an extra vowel."

"What was the defendant's name?" Mark asked, his voice showing his pleasure at the information.

"The guy's name was McElroy – M-C-E-L-R-O-Y. I spelled it with a M-A-C."

Oh, that hit close to home! But, Mark couldn't let it go. "Betcha never did it again, huh?"

Milt had that almost wicked grin on his face. "No way was I going to let that happen again. I made sure that defendants with names beginning like yours had the correct spelling on the paperwork."

"Yeah, just my luck," Mark quipped. "Well, you might have figured out names, but your spelling still stinks."

"Yeah, well, I still have the book on ASL and I know a few words that you don't know."

"Like what? I practically memorized that thing."

He took his fingertips and swept them on top of his other hand.

"That's easy Hardcase, send, right?"

Milt followed it up with the phrase, I'm, sending and you.

"You're sending me where?"

Now it was Milt's turn to have some fun. He made the sign for jail.

"You're sending me back to jail? For what? I just busted open a federal gun smuggling case. Very funny, Hardcase."

Milt stopped signing and said, "I'm sending you back to jail for destroying my property by leaving stupid notes all over. Did you really have to leave the one _in_ the kitchen sink. I accidentally ran it down the garbage disposal, I hope paper doesn't do any damage, otherwise you're going to be the one fixing it. But a smart guy like you that can learn to sign, oughta be able to tackle a kitchen sink without any problem. You did learn this signing stuff pretty fast kiddo." He was surprised by how much Mark had learned.

"I think I might keep it up, too. Heck, maybe even take a class or two in it. You never know when it might come in handy." Milt nodded his understanding. McCormick continued to talk, "Maybe you could take a refresher in spelling. You know the community college has all sorts of remedial classes."

"Remedial, I'll give you remedial," he made a fist and gave Mark an easy hit on the chin. "Hey, how about that steak tonight?" Milt asked.

"The filet?" Mark was grinning.

"Yeah, the filet. I know a place that makes a really good steak. And the dealership just delivered my truck. It's repaired and I want to road test it."

Mark stood up slowly, and Milt grabbed his arm to steady him. The dizziness was mostly gone but it still lingered if he moved too quickly. He took a breath. "Sure, let's eat!"

OOOOO

Mark sat in the passenger seat and admired the repair job on the GMC as Milt drove them back to the estate. The dealership had done a great job. He couldn't even tell that the windshield had been smashed out or that there had been bullet holes in the body.

"They did a good job," he remarked.

"I can't tell a difference in the steering," Milt commented. "Still runs as tight as she ever did."

Mark watched out the window as the trees sped by. "Ya know, we didn't have to go to the fancy restaurant. The steakhouse would have been fine."

"Nah," Milt said. "We're celebrating, that means we can go to a nicer place. Besides, that filet was delicious."

"Yeah, but it was expensive," Mark pointed out.

"It was worth it," was the judge's reply.

Worth it. It was still a rather novel idea that someone thought he was 'worth it.' How many times over the last three years had Hardcastle done something just 'because?' The aftermath of when he was shot replayed in his mind. The judge was there all the time, doing anything he needed, helping him out no matter what. No one besides his mother had ever thought he was 'worth it,' at least not to that extent. Having a friend who would go to the line for him and then go beyond -- Mark needed to say something, but he didn't know how. Finally, he decided that to just say it straight out was the best way.

"Judge, I never did thank you for all this. Everything you did for me."

He knew that Milt glanced over and saw that he was still staring out the front. Mark could say thank you for little things, he could show gratitude, but for someone to do everything that the judge had done, how could he say thanks for that?

"You don't have to, kiddo. Like you said, we're there for each other. Everything evens out."

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?" Milt asked.

"Hospitals cost money. Surgeries cost money. I was _not_ easy to put up with, and you put up with me when I wasn't exactly acting like myself when this whole thing started. You were even willing to learn a whole new language just so I could understand what was going on, even hang up the silver bullets. That's a lot. Even when Falcon and Price shot me…"

Milt thought for a moment, then said, "Remember when Weed Randall shot me?"

"Like I'm going to forget that any time soon," Mark told him.

"You were right there for me when I was in the hospital, during my recovery, when I came home, you drove me to rehab and took care of the estate all on your own. You made sure I did all the therapy, you waited on me hand and foot. You were like an old mother McCormick."

"Yeah, but…"

"No, no buts, just even, you know? You were there for me the whole time. And if you're keeping score, it's been every time. Back in Washington, back in Arkansas, throughout this entire arrangement we got going. When you got shot, it scared the hell out of me, and there was no way I was going to let you be alone either. This is what we do."

"Yeah, and there's that too, the arrangement."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Milt asked him.

"Do you even realize just how generous you are?" Mark was blown away in thinking about it. "Other than when you buy things at the store like soap," he joked, "you 'offered' me this chance to get out of jail, Judge, which in and of itself is sort of nuts, any shrink would tell you so, too. Then you bring me home, let me live in your gatehouse, feed me, pay all my doctor bills which I've had too many of, insurance. It's crazy. I mean, what were you possibly thinking?"

"I was thinking that I wanted to put scum like Martin Cody behind bars, and you were a means to that end."

McCormick didn't believe him for a second but before he could add anything, Milt chimed in.

"Look, McCormick, I think we both know how this started and where it's come to right now. You wanna hear me tell you that I came up with this plan of mine for some saintly reason? Maybe somewhere inside I did. Maybe I even convinced myself that was why I was doing it, I don't know for sure. You know I'd tried it before and it didn't work. When we started, I was still the same old curmudgeon I was before when I got J.J. Beale for this gig, so maybe it's you who made all this work and not me. I do know that I wanted to continue the work I did in the courtroom. I love the law, always have." McCormick sought to interrupt him. "Just wait, McCormick, let me finish here. Now that you can _hear_ it, _I_ want to _say_ it. I had the idea to try to do the right thing, get the bad guys, but you're the one who's always carried out the ideas. You're the one who goes in and risks everything to catch them. Now somewhere along the way, everything changed. I can't tell you when or how, but I don't think either one of us expected to wind up being best friends. But here we are. Neither one of us could be so brilliant as to plan that. That's, I don't know, fate, karma, the universe's idea of irony. The thing is that friends do for each other because they want to, not because they have to or they're owed something. You don't have to thank me for anything."

McCormick carefully thought over everything the Judge had said. He had to agree that them winding up best friends was out there, he wasn't convinced it was simply fate.

Milt kept his eyes on the road, thinking through the entire conversation, then he said, "But you're welcome."

_**Chapter 41**_

"I don't know what he wants McCormick, all his message said, was to come down to the station. You heard it for yourself. I'm not making it up." Milt explained the situation to McCormick for about the fourth time during their ride downtown.

McCormick was angry. "You promised, that's all. You promised no police stations for at least a month. Did you forget already? I'm supposed to be convalescing, taking it easy… helping chop up that fallen tree…working on my tan."

"No I didn't forget, I'm keeping my end of the bargain, I can't help that the police called up and ask us to come down there. What am I supposed to say? Sorry, we can't do that till October? And if you get any tanner, you're gonna be a potato chip."

"I would have done it for you," Mark murmured.

"Too bad, we're here. Tell you what, we'll go in, see what it's all about, and that'll be that. In and out in no time, how's that?"

"You stink as a salesman, Hardcase," Mark said, rolling his eyes and getting out of the truck.

They walked into Frank's somewhat messy office.

"Man, who threw a party and why weren't we invited?" Mark cracked, as he looked at the glut of paper, the empty coffee cups, the food containers scattered around.

"Not funny Mark, and here I am trying to do you guys a favor and all I get is wise cracks, huh?"

"Sorry, Frank. I didn't mean it. I just haven't seen it this, well, messy before," McCormick added.

"Yeah, well, some of you are taking a break from crime and punishment, some of us are left to clean up the mess from the last international incident," Harper was not amused.

"Something we can help you with?" Milt asked.

"Nope, I just wanted to get you guys up to speed on the latest, if you have time, that is. I know you both have more pressing engagements, like beer and baseball."

Milt grinned. "Beer's cooling in the fridge and the baseball game doesn't start until 8:00 tonight. That's why we're here."

"Looks like whoever was here ate you out of house and home. Frank, can I maybe get you some coffee or a Danish or anything?" Mark asked, suddenly feeling like he needed to be a lot nicer to the Lieutenant.

"Nah, I'm good, Mark. Besides, it's nearly three in the afternoon. You're only about seven hours behind with the breakfast."

Mark took a chair and sort of slunk down into it.

Milt sat down next to him. "What is it? Do we need to testify, make some statements? You tell us." Milt was more animated.

"No to all of that, too. I wanted you two to know that we've pretty much wrapped this whole mess up, well, as far as you two are concerned anyway."

"Whatta ya mean? We're done with it?" Mark asked. He couldn't believe it, after the adventures they'd just been through.

"Yep."

"How'd you pull that off, Frank?" Milt wanted to know.

"U.S. Exporters is under federal indictment. It came through early this afternoon. That's why I called you guys at home. The stuff Mark uncovered in the warehouse was all the proof the Fed's needed to put it all together."

"Okay, but since we found the stuff, aren't they gonna want to ask us about it?"

"I told him the special prosecutor assigned to the case that we got the stuff anonymously. He bought it hook, line and sinker. You guys are cleared."

"Yeah, but what about your guys and Gallagher? They all know?" Milt wasn't totally convinced.

"They all know to keep their mouths shut. With all the crap you two went through the past month, it's the least we can all do."

"Yeah but still, Frank…" Milt pressed on.

Mark saw it as his cue to get Milt out of there fast. Frank had spent a lot of time to get them out of this thing this cleanly, and he wasn't about let it go sour now. "Come on, Hardcastle. We got a tree to chop up at home, remember? Save your energy for that." He started to pull Milt out of the office. "Thanks, Frank, we appreciate you keeping us out of it." Hardcastle tried to interrupt him again, but Mark kept talking, "We both want to thank you, Lieutenant, for keeping us out of this. Isn't that right, Hardcastle?" He put his hand behind Milt's head to make him nod yes, "See, the Judge agrees. Seriously, Frank, you're one in a million. Come on, Judge." He all but dragged him back to the truck.

As they stepped outside Milt began to speak. "I don't like it, McCormick, not one bit. We should be able to speak on our own behalf."

"Judge, we were in that warehouse without a warrant. It was trespassing even if there wasn't a sign posted. It's one of those technicalities you don't like but has a tendency to come back and bite you in the butt. You really want to set who knows how many commando types free to roam the world?"

"Of course not."

"Then let it go, let Frank do his thing. It's a good thing, right?"

"A technicality is a technicality McCormick. We could bring it to court and see how a judge would rule. Chances are he or she would rule in our favor. You have to trust the law to work, that's why it's set up the way it is."

"No, that's not how it always is. That's only in the John Wayne movies. Chances are someone's name would be spelled wrong, and I'd wind up back in prison or back on probation and dancing to the state's tune. Ain't gonna happen. I'm free and clear, free man, debt to society paid in full with interest. Trust me on this one, Judge. This is the best way. Just let it go."

"I'll think about it."

"You're such a donkey." He even signed it again for good measure. "Get in the truck. We've got a tree to chop up."

"I've got a tree to chop up. You're not supposed to overexert yourself, remember?"

"Yeah, and if you weren't so cheap to let those tree choppers come in and take the tree away, we wouldn't have to do it ourselves."

Milt tossed up his hands. "One day, you'll be impressed with the methods I use behind the things I do."

"Don't bet on it."

_**Chapter 42**_

Epilogue:

"McCORMICK!"

The judge marched out of the house – where did the kid get to anyway? He couldn't have gone far.

He walked to the gatehouse… nope, empty.

He checked the pool… no one there.

Before he decided to break the sound barrier by yelling again, he turned around and hurried toward the garage. As he approached, he heard the rhythmic sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival belting out the lyrics to Bad Moon Rising, but the volume was at a more 'normal' level than what the kid normally listened to. He walked inside and saw two denim covered legs sticking out from under the truck.

"What are you doing?"

Mark slid out from under the truck, saying, "Changing the oil. I told you this morning, remember?"

Right. The kid had mentioned that this morning. "Well, don't overdo it. The doctor said –"

"Don't overexert myself until after I go back for my last checkup in a week," he interrupted as he slid back under the truck. "This is me lying on my back under a truck. I'm not overexerting myself."

"Here, you got some mail from Cliff's office," Hardcastle thrust a letter in his direction.

Mark slid out and grabbed it.

"What's it say?" Milt asked.

"Can I open it first?" Mark looked at him like an impertinent child.

Hardcastle took a step back and let him read the contents. It appeared to be a typed letter of some sort. "You having some tax problems?"

Mark laughed at Hardcastle's humor but kept reading the letter. There was a business card inside too.

"Are you going to tell me what it is or not?"

"That would be the latter," Mark replied.

Not the answer the Judge wanted to hear.

"Alright, alright, it's just a letter congratulating me on the surgery and offering me any help if I ever need it."

"That's all, huh?"

"Yep," Mark sort of waved the letter out to show he wasn't hiding anything. In actuality, it was a letter of reference for Mark for when he decided to apply to law school and the business card was a friend of his who worked in assisting students with financial aid. Mark folded up the letter and tucked it in his back pocket. Hardcastle was now busy looking at the nearby radio. McCormick slid back under the truck.

"Not wearing the headphones?"

"Nope. I didn't want to hear you yelling at me for wearing them and cranking them up too loud. You paid for these ears, you know."

The judge affectionately kicked Mark's shoe. "Don't you forget it, wise guy."

"By the way, Frank's coming."

Milt turned and looked behind him, but didn't see anyone.

"Did he call?"

"Nope. I can hear his engine from here. He really needs to change his spark plugs."

Milt then heard the unmistakable sound of Frank's car as it pulled up into the driveway and toward the garage. The judge shook his head and smiled. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah!" was the enthusiastic reply.

Frank got out of his car and walked up to the garage. "Hi, guys. Not catching you at a bad time, am I?"

The way Frank said those words had Mark sliding back out from under the truck. Even the judge picked up that something was up. "What is it, Frank?" Hardcastle asked.

"Nothing bad. Don't worry about that. I just thought you two might like to know that the governments from several different countries have arrested or detained close to five hundred individuals linked to the gun smuggling operation as well as most of the members of the Greater Good paramilitary unit."

"Five hundred?" Mark asked. "So this was bigger than even the Feds thought."

"Much bigger," Frank told them as he handed them a file concerning the case. "And you won't believe how they were caught."

Both men looked at the lieutenant in anticipation of that answer.

"Every single one of them used the address on the bill of lading Mark took a picture of in the warehouse. All we had to do was backtrack the shipments. That one picture was the best evidence that linked them all together. It turns out that _that_ was the location all the merchandise was smuggled through."

"We got a lucky break," Mark commented.

"And," Frank pulled out an envelope and handed it to the Judge, "the Governor of the state of California knows of your unofficial help in this particular situation and wants to give you two a commendation. Unofficially, of course. Under the table."

"Are you kidding me, Frank?" Mark was full of child-like glee. "We got a commendation from the Governor?"

Harper nodded and reached out to shake his hand. They both looked over at Hardcastle who still had not torn into the envelope.

"Go on, Milt, open it up," Frank prodded him.

"Why is the Governor suddenly recognizing us?"

"Um, here's a thought, Judge, we helped take down FIVE HUNDRED GUNRUNNING GOONS," McCormick said, trying to snatch away the envelope. "If you don't want to open it up, I will."

Hardcastle kept it out of his grip.

"Yeah, would you open it, Milt? It's a proclamation, you know. It'll look good on the kid's résumé."

"McCormick doesn't even know what a résumé is," the Judge cracked.

"Sure I do, I can even use it in a sentence. I'll resume eating dinner, when I'm finished here."

"See what I mean?" Milt said to Frank.

The Judge pulled something else out of his pocket and handed it over to McCormick. "This is something you might like better than a commendation from a guy you don't even know."

Mark took the envelope and opened it up to see a couple of plane tickets to Hawaii inside, along with two weeks at the Kalapuai Hilton Resort. In the meantime, the Judge was busy opening up the large envelope with two certificates inside.

"Are you kidding? We're going to Hawaii?"

"If you think you're up for it, kiddo?"

"Of course I'm up for it. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I'm not so sure you're fully recuperated quite yet. We'll have to make sure those precious ears of yours can handle the cabin pressure."

"Hey, I'll swim over there or take a boat if I have to. Two weeks at a Hawaiian Resort. This is fantastic. No, it's better than fantastic."

The Judge and Frank were busy looking over the certificates. Both of them cringed when they looked over McCormick's.

Mark stopped jumping around and carrying on just in time to see them set their faces to frowning. "What is it? What's up?"

"Well, you didn't really want the certificate from the Governor, did you, kiddo?"

"What? Why? Yes, I did, why?" He poked his head between the two of them and he let out a scream at the top of his lungs. 'THOSE IDIOTS! MCCORMICK DOESN'T HAVE AN 'A' IN IT! THEY SPELLED MY NAME WRONG!" He was livid.

"Easy going there, kiddo. All that shouting, and you're liable to make us all deaf."

The End


End file.
